ing with Madge, though I sincerely hoped he would not permit himself
to be exhibited in that manner. Madge was resolved upon this triumph,
and called loudly to Edith to come and take her place at the instrument,
and play the liveliest waltz in the universe for her and Mr. Regulus.

"Thank you, Miss Melville," said he, laying down his violin and resuming
his usual grave and dignified manner, "I am no dancing bear."

"Come, Mr. Regulus, I have no doubt you dance as charmingly as you play.
Besides, you would not be so ungallant as to refuse a lady's request."

"Not a _lady-like_ request," he answered, with a shrewd cast of the eye
under his beetling brows.

This sarcasm was received with acclamation; but Meg lifted her brow as
dauntless as ever and laughed as loudly.

I began to feel weary of mirth in which I could not sympathize. Mrs.
Linwood came to me, and saying I looked pale and wan, insisted upon my
retiring. To this I gladly assented. The little misunderstanding between
Edith and myself weighed heavily on my spirits, and I longed to be
alone.

Just as we were crossing the hall of entrance, Richard Clyde came in. He
greeted me with so much feeling, such earnest, unaffected pleasure, yet
a pleasure so chastened by sensibility, I realized, perhaps for the
first time, the value of the heart I had rejected.

"You have been ill, Gabriella," said he, retaining for a moment the hand
he had taken. "You look pale and languid. You do not know how much your
friends have suffered on your account, or how grateful they feel for
your convalesence."

"I did not think I was of so much consequence," I replied. "It is well
to be sick now and then, so as to be able to appreciate the kindness of
friends."

"You must suffer us to go now, Richard," said Mrs. Linwood moving
towards the staircase; "you will find merry company in the parlor ready
to entertain you. As Gabriella is no longer a prisoner, you will have
future opportunities of seeing her."

"I must embrace them soon," said he, sadly. "I expect to leave this
place before long,--my friends, and my country."

"You, Richard?" I exclaimed. Then I remembered the remarks I had heard
on commencement day, of his being sent to Europe to complete his
education. I regretted to lose the champion of my childhood, the friend
of my youth, and my countenance expressed my emotion.

"I have a great deal to say to you, Gabriella," said he, in a low tone.
"May I see you to-morrow?"

"C