lefactor.

"Will they not suppose the jewels were stolen?" I asked, with the
calmness of desperation. "Surely the world cannot know they were given
by me; and though it is painful to be associated with so dark a
transaction, I see not, dear Ernest, why my reputation should be clouded
by this?"

"Alas! Gabriella,--you were seen by more than one walking with him in
the park. You were seen entering the jeweller's shop, and afterwards
meeting him in Broadway. Even in the act of giving your shawl to the
poor shivering woman, you were watched. You believed yourself
unremarked; but the blind man might as well think himself unseen walking
in the blaze of noonday, because his own eyes are bound by the fillet of
darkness, as _you_ expect to pass unnoticed through a gaping throng. Mr.
Harland told me of these things, that I might be prepared to repel the
arrows of slander which would inevitably be aimed at the bosom of my
wife."

"But you told him that it was my father. That it was to save him from
destruction I gave them. Oh Ernest, you told him all!"

"I have no right to reveal your secret, Gabriella. If he be indeed your
father, let eternal secrecy veil his name. Would you indeed consent that
the world should know that it was your father who had committed so dark
a crime? Would you, Gabriella?"

"I would far rather be covered with ignominy as a daughter, than
disgrace as a wife," I answered, while burning blushes dyed my cheeks at
the possibility of the last. "The first will not reflect shame or
humiliation on you. You have raised me generously, magnanimously, to
your own position; and though the world may say that you yielded to
weakness in loving me,--a poor and simple girl.--Nay, nay; I recall my
words, Ernest; I will not wrong myself, because clouds and darkness
gather round me. You did not _stoop_, or lower yourself, by wedding me.
Love made us equal. My proud, aspiring love, looked up; yours bent to
meet its worship,--and both united, as the waves of ocean unite, in
fulness, depth, and strength,--and, like them, have found their level.
Let the world know that I am the daughter of St. James; that, moved by
his prayers and intimidated by his threats, I met him and attempted to
save him from ruin. They may say that I was rash and imprudent; but they
dare not call me guilty. There is a voice in every heart which is not
palsied, or deadened, or dumb, that will plead in my defence. The child
who endeavors to shield a fath