ringing laughs, that seemed perfectly
uncontrollable.

"I think I can guess what it is," I said, assisting her at her toilet,
which was never an elaborate business with her. "You and Mr. Regulus are
very good friends, perhaps betrothed lovers. Is that so very strange?"

"Who told you?" she exclaimed, turning quickly round, her cheeks
crimsoned and her eyes sparkling most luminously,--"who told you such
nonsense?"

"It does not require any supernatural knowledge to know this," I
answered. "I anticipated it when you were in New York, and most
sincerely do I congratulate you on the possession of so excellent and
noble a heart. Prize it, dear Margaret, and make yourself worthy of all
it can, of all it will impart, to ennoble and exalt your own."

"Ah! I fear I never shall be worthy of it," she cried, giving me an
enthusiastic embrace, and turning aside her head to hide a starting
tear; "but I do prize it, Gabriella, beyond all words."

"Ah, you little gypsy!" she exclaimed, suddenly resuming her old wild
manner, "why did you not prize it yourself? He has told me all about the
romantic scenes of the academy,--he says you transformed him from a
rough boor into a feeling, tender-hearted man,--that you stole into his
very inmost being, like the breath of heaven, and made the barren
wilderness blossom like the rose. Ah! you ought to hear how beautifully
he talks of you. But I am not jealous of you."

"Heaven forbid!" I involuntarily cried.

"You may well say that," said she, looking earnestly in my face; "you
may well say that, darling. But where is Ernest? I have not seen him
yet."

"He is in the library, I believe. He is not very well; and you know he
never enjoys company much."

"The same jealous, unreasonable being he ever was, I dare say," she
vehemently exclaimed. "It is a shame, and a sin, and a burning sin, for
him to go on as he does. Mr. Regulus says he could weep tears of blood
to think how you have sacrificed yourself to him."

"Margaret,--Margaret! If you have one spark of love for me,--one feeling
of respect and regard for Mrs. Linwood, your mother's friend and your
own, never, never speak of Ernest's peculiarities. I cannot deny them; I
cannot deny that they make me unhappy, and fill me with sad forebodings;
but he is my husband,--and I cannot hear him spoken of with bitterness.
He is my husband; and I love him in spite of his wayward humors, with
all the romance of girlish passion, and all the tender