all the solemnities of religion, with the golden ring, the uttered vow,
and on bended knee, I was wedded to Henry Gabriel St. James.

"My step-mother refused to be present. She had sufficient regard to the
world's opinion to plead indisposition as an excuse; but it was a false
one. She never forgave me for winning the love of the man whom she had
herself resolved to charm, and from the hour of our introduction to the
day of my marriage, my life was clouded by the gloom of her ill temper.

"We immediately departed for New York, where St. James resided, and our
bridal home was adorned with all the elegancies which classic taste
could select, and prodigal love lavish upon its idol. I was happy then,
beyond the dream of imagination. St. James was the fondest, the kindest,
the tenderest--O my God! must I add--the falsest of human beings? I did
not love him then--I worshipped, I adored him. I have told you that my
childish imagination was fed by wild, impassioned romances, and I had
made to myself an ideal image, round which, like the maid of France, I
hung the garlands of fancy, and knelt before its shrine.

"Whatever has been my after fate, I have known the felicity of loving in
all its length and breadth and strength. And he, too, loved me
passionately, devotedly. Strong indeed must have been the love that
triumphed over principle, honor, and truth, that broke the most sacred
of human ties, and dared the vengeance of retributive Heaven.

"St. James was an artist. He was not dependent entirely on his genius
for his subsistence, though his fortune was not large enough to enable
him to live in splendid indolence. He had been in Europe for the last
few years, wandering amid the ruins of Italy, studying the grand old
masters, summering in the valleys of Switzerland, beneath the shadow of
its mountain heights, and polishing his bold, masterly sketches among
the elegant artists of Paris.

"With what rapture I listened to his glowing descriptions of foreign
lands, and what beautiful castles we built where we were to dwell
together in the golden clime of Italy or the sunny bowers of France!

"At length, my Gabriella, you were given to my arms, and the deep, pure
fountain of a mother's love welled in my youthful bosom. But my life was
wellnigh a sacrifice to yours. For weeks it hung trembling on a thread
slender and weak as the gossamer's web. St. James watched over me, as
none but guardian angels could watch, and I had anothe