as one of the
shining ones revealed in the pilgrim's vision. At that moment _her_
esteem and approbation seemed as precious to me as Ernest's love. I
entered my chamber, and sitting down quietly in my beloved recess,
repeated over and over again the Christian motto, which the lips of Mrs.
Linwood uttered in parting,--"Patient continuance in well-doing."

I condemned myself for the feelings I had been indulging. I had felt
bitter towards Edith for smiling so sweetly in her brother's face, when
it had turned so coldly from me. I was envious of her power to soothe
the restless spirit I had so unconsciously troubled. As I thus communed
with my own heart, I unbound my hair, that the air might exhale the mist
which had gathered in its folds. I brushed out the damp tresses, till,
self-mesmerized, a soft haziness stole over my senses, and though I did
not sleep, I was on the borders of the land of dreams.

CHAPTER XLIII.

I suppose I must have slept, though I was not conscious of it, for I did
not hear Ernest enter the room, and yet when I looked again, he was
sitting in the opposite window, still as a statue, looking out into the
depths of night. I started as if I had seen a spirit, for I believed
myself alone, and I did not feel less lonely now. There was something
dejected in his attitude, and he sighed heavily as he turned and leaned
his forehead against the window sash.

I rose, and softly approaching him laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Are you angry with me, Ernest?" I asked.

He did not answer, or turn towards me; but I felt a tremulous motion of
his shoulder, and knew that he heard me.

"What have I done to displease you, dear Ernest?" again I asked. "Will
you not speak to me and tell me, at least, in what I have offended?"

"I am not offended," he answered, without looking up; "I am not angry,
but grieved, wounded, and unhappy."

"And will you not tell me the cause of your grief? Is not sympathy in
sorrow the wife's holiest privilege?"

"Gabriella, you mock me!" he exclaimed, suddenly rising and speaking in
a low, stern voice. "You know that you are yourself the cause of my
grief, and your words are as hollow as your actions are vain. Did you
not promise, solemnly promise never to deceive me again, after having
caused me such agony by the deception I yet freely forgave?"

"Tell me, Ernest, in what have I deceived? If I know myself, every word
and action has been as clear and open as noonday."

"Di