, while its odoriferous breath perfumed the whole
apartment.

"I am glad you have another, Edith," I said, looking at the wilted
flowers on my pillow. "These have fulfilled their mission most sweetly.
I have no doubt they inspired soothing dreams, though I cannot remember
them distinctly."

"Oh! these are _yours_," she answered, "sent by a friend who was quite
distressed at your absence from the dinner-table. Cannot you guess the
donor?"

"It will not require much acuteness," replied I, taking the flowers, and
though I could not help admiring their beauty, and feeling grateful for
the attention, a shade of regret clouded their welcome; "I have so few
friends it is easy to conjecture who thus administers to my
gratification."

"Well, who is it? You do not hazard the utterance of the name."

"No one but Richard Clyde would think of giving me a token like this.
They are very, _very_ sweet, and yet I wish he had not sent them."

"Ungrateful Gabriella! No one but Richard! A host of common beings
melted into one, could not make the equal of the friend who made me the
bearer of this charming offering. Is the gift of Ernest greeted with
such indifference?"

"Ernest!" I repeated, and the blood bounded in my veins like a stream
leaping over a mountain rock. "Is he indeed so kind?"

I bent my head over the beautiful messengers, to hide the joy too deep
for words, the gratitude too intense for the gift. As I thus looked down
into the heart of the flowers, I caught a glimpse of something white
folded among the green leaves. Edith's back was turned as she smoothed
the folds of an India muslin dress that lay upon the bed. I drew out the
paper with a tremulous hand, and read these few pencilled words:--

"Sweet flower girl of the north! be not cast down. The most noxious wind
changes not the purity of marble; neither can an idle breath shake the
confidence born of unsullied innocence."

These words pencilled by his own hand, were addressed to _me_. They were
embalmed in fragrance and imbedded in bloom, and henceforth they were
engraven on tablets on which the hand of man had never before traced a
character, which the whole world might not peruse.

Oh, what magic there was in those little words! Slander had lost its
sting, and malice its venom, at least for the present hour. I put the
talisman in my bosom and the flowers in water,--for _they_ might fade.

There was no one in the room but Edith and myself. She sat on the si