ok of faith, one prayer to Christ for mercy, are worth more than years
of penance and lonely torture. Revoke this rash vow. Come back to us, my
Ernest,--come down from the wilderness, leave the desolate places of
despair, and come where blessings wait you. Your mother waits to bless
you,--Edith waits you to greet and welcome her Julian,--Margaret, a
happy bride, waits your friendly congratulations. Come, and disperse by
your presence the shadow that rests on the household."

"Would you indeed counsel me to break a solemn vow, Gabriella? It may
have been rash; but it was a vow; and were I to break it, I should feel
forever dishonored in the sight of God and man."

"Which, think you, had more weight when placed in the scales of eternal
justice, Herod's rash vow, or the life of the holy prophet sacrificed to
fulfil it? O Ernest!--wild, impulsive words forced from the lips of
passion should never be made guides of action. It is wrong, I know, to
speak unwisely and madly, but doubly, trebly wrong to act so."

As thus I pleaded and reasoned and entreated, I kept my earnest gaze on
his face, and eagerly watched,--watched with trembling hope and fear the
effect of my words. I had drawn back from him as far as the width of the
library, and my hands were clasped together and pressed upon my bosom. I
did not know that I stood directly beneath the picture of the Italian
flower-girl, till I saw his glance uplifted from my face to hers, with
an expression that recalled the morning when he found me gazing on her
features, in all the glow of youth, love, joy, and hope. Then I
remembered how he had scattered my rose leaves beneath his feet, and
what a prophetic sadness had then shaded my spirits.

"Alas! my poor Gabriella," he cried, looking down from the picture to
me, with an expression of the tenderest compassion; "Alas, my
flower-girl! how have I wilted your blooming youth! You are pale, my
girl, and sad,--that bewitching smile no longer parts your glowing lips.
Would to God I had never crossed your path of roses with my withering
footsteps! Would to God I had never linked your young, confiding heart
to mine, so blasted by suspicion, so consumed by jealousy's baleful
fires! Yet, Heaven knows I meant to make you happy. I meant to watch
over you as tenderly as the mother over her new-born infant,--as holily
as the devotee over the shrine of the saint he adores. How faithless I
have been to this guardianship of love, you know too wel