ht, never aspired to
his love. You believe me, Mrs. Linwood--tell me, you believe me in
this?"

"I do, Gabriella. Your heart opened as involuntarily and as inevitably
to receive him, as the flower unfolds itself to the noonday sun. It is
your destiny; but would to God I could oppose it, that I could
substitute for you a happier, if less brilliant lot."

"A happier lot than to be the wife of Ernest? Oh! Mrs. Linwood, Heaven
offers nothing to the eye of faith more blissful, more divine."

"Alas! my child, such is always the dream of love like yours, and from
such dreams there must be a day of awakening. God never intended their
realization in this world. You look up to me with wondering and
reproachful glance. You have feared me, Gabriella, feared that I would
oppose my son's choice, if it rested on one so lowly as you believe
yourself. You are mistaken--I have no right to dictate to him. He is
more than of age, has an independent fortune and an independent will.
The husband lifts his wife to his own position in society, and his name
annihilates hers. The knowledge of your father's character gives me
pain, and the possibility of his ever claiming you as his child is a
source of deep inquietude,--but it is chiefly for you I tremble, for you
I suffer, my beloved Gabriella."

I looked up in consternation and alarm. What invisible sword hung
trembling over the future?

"Ernest," she began, then stopping, she raised me from my kneeling
attitude, led me to a sofa, and made me seat myself at her side.
"Ernest," she continued, holding my hand tenderly in hers, "has many
noble and attractive qualities. He is just, generous, and honorable; he
is upright, honest, and true; the shadow of deceit never passed over his
soul, the stain of a mean action never rested on his conduct. But,"--and
her hand involuntarily tightened around mine,--"he has qualities fatal
to the peace of those who love him,--fatal to his own happiness;
suspicion haunts him like a dark shadow,--jealousy, like a serpent, lies
coiled in his heart."

"He has told me all this," I cried, with a sigh of relief,--"but I fear
not,--my confidence shall be so entire, there shall be no room for
suspicion,--my love so perfect it shall cast out jealousy."

"So I once thought and reasoned in all the glow of youthful enthusiasm,
but experience came with its icy touch, and enthusiasm, hope, joy, and
love itself faded and died. The dark passions of Ernest are
hereditary,--t