a countenance of gentle seriousness, and extended
her hand affectionately.

Walking hastily towards her, I knelt at her feet, and laying the
manuscript in her lap, burst into tears.

"Oh! Mrs. Linwood," I cried, "will your love and kindness survive the
knowledge of all these pages will reveal? Will a mother's virtues cancel
the record of a father's guilt? Can you cherish and protect me still?"

She bent over me and took me in her arms, while tears trembled in her
eyes.

"I know all, my dear child," she said; "there is nothing new to be
revealed. Your mother gave me, on her death-bed, a brief history of her
life, and it only increased your claims on my maternal care. Do you
think it possible, Gabriella, that I could be so unjust and unkind, as
to visit the sins of a father on the head of an innocent and unoffending
child? No; believe me, nothing but your own conduct could ever alienate
my affections or confidence."

"Teach me to deserve it, dear Mrs. Linwood,--teach me how to prove my
love, my gratitude, and veneration."

"By confiding in me as a mother, trusting me as a friend, and seeking me
as a guide and counsellor in this most dangerous season of youth and
temptation, you are very dear to me, Gabriella. Next to my own son and
daughter, I love you, nor do I consider their happiness a more sacred
deposit than yours."

"Oh! Mrs. Linwood," I exclaimed, covering my burning face with my hands,
and again bowing it on her lap--"Ask me anything,--and nothing shall be
held back--I cannot--I dare not--perhaps I ought not--"

"Tell me that my son loves you?"

I started and trembled; but as soon as the words passed her lips I
gathered courage to meet whatever she might say.

"If it be indeed so," I answered, "should not the revelation come from
him, rather than me?"

"There needs no formal declaration. I have seen it, known it, even
before yourselves were conscious of its existence--this all engrossing
passion. Before my son's return I foresaw it, with the prescience of
maternal love. I knew your young, imaginative heart would find its ideal
in him, and that his fastidious taste and sensitive, reserved nature
would be charmed by your simplicity, freshness, and genius. I knew it,
and yet I could not warn you. For when did youth ever believe the
cautions of age, or passion listen to the voice of truth?"

"Warn _me_, madam? Oh, you mean him, not _me_. I never had the
presumption to think myself his equal; never soug