think so?"

"Certainly, if you wish it," he said, and his voice had an altered tone,
like that of a sweet instrument suddenly untuned; "but there is only one
_now_, for those who fear to trust me, Gabriella."

"To trust _you_,--oh you cannot, do not misunderstand me thus!"

"Why else do you shrink, as if I were leading you to a path of thorns
instead of one margined with flowers?"

"I fear the observations of the world, since the bitter lesson of the
morning."

"Your fear! You attach more value to the passing remarks of strangers,
than the feelings of one who was beginning to believe he had found one
pure votary of nature and of truth. It is well. I have monopolized your
attention too long."

Calmly and coldly he spoke, and the warm light of his eye went out like
lightning, leaving the cloud gloom behind it. I was about to ask him to
lead me back to his mother, in a tone as cold and altered as his own,
when I saw her approaching us with a lady whom I had observed at the
chapel; for her large, black eyes seemed magnetizing me, whenever I met
their gaze. She was tall, beyond the usual height of her sex, finely
formed, firm and compact as a marble pillar. A brow of bold expansion,
features of the Roman contour, clearly cut and delicately marked; an
expression of recklessness, independence, and self-reliance were the
most striking characteristics of the young lady, whom Mrs. Linwood
introduced as Miss Melville, the daughter of an early friend of hers.

"Miss Margaret Melville," she repeated, looking at her son, who stood,
leaning with an air of stately indifference against a pillar of the
piazza. I had withdrawn my hand from his arm, and felt as if the breadth
of the frozen ocean was between us.

"Does Mr. Ernest Linwood forget his old friend so easily?" she asked, in
a clear, ringing voice, extending a fair ungloved hand. "Do you not
remember Madge Wildfire, or Meg the Dauntless, as the students used to
call me? Or have I become so civilized and polished that you do not
recognize me?"

"I did not indeed," said he, receiving the offered hand with more grace
than eagerness, "but it is not so much the fault of _my_ memory, as the
marvellous change in yourself. I must not say improvement, as that would
imply that there was a time when you were susceptible of it."

"You may say just what you please, for I like frankness and
straightforwardness as well as I ever did; better,--a great deal better,
for I know its valu