e bloom of summer; but white,
cold, and dazzling was the lawn, and bleak, bare, and leafless the grand
old elms and the stately brotherhood of oaks that guarded the avenue.

With pride, gratitude, joy, and a thousand mingling emotions, I
introduced my father into a dwelling consecrated by so many
recollections of happiness and woe. The cloud was removed from my birth,
the stain from my lineage. I could now exult in my parentage and glory
in my father.

Julian was there, and welcomed St. James with enthusiastic pleasure,
who, on his part, seemed to cherish for him even parental affection.
With joy and triumph beaming in his eyes and glowing on his cheek,
Julian took the lovely Edith by the hand, and introduced her as his
bride. Still occupying her usual place in her mother's home, in all her
sweetness, simplicity, and spirituality, it was difficult to believe any
change had come over her destiny. She had not waited for my presence,
because she knew the bridal wreath woven for her would recall the
blighted bloom of mine. She had no festal wedding. She could not, while
her brother's fate was wrapped in uncertainty and gloom.

One Sunday evening, after Mr. Somerville had dismissed the congregation
with the usual benediction, Julian led Edith to the altar, and her
mother stood by her side till the solemn words were uttered that made
them one. So simple and holy were the nuptial rites of the wealthy and
beautiful heiress of Grandison Place.

My father spoke in exalted terms of the young artist, of his virtues and
his genius, the singleness of his heart, the uprightness of his
principles, and the warmth and purity of his affections. Had he, my
father, needed any passport to the favor of Mrs. Linwood, he could not
have had a surer one; but her noble nature instantaneously recognized
his congenial and exalted worth. He had that in his air, his
countenance, and manner, that distinguished him from the sons of men, as
the planets are distinguished by their clear, intense, and steadfast
lustre among the starry ranks of heaven.

I gave him the manuscript my mother had left me, and at his request
pointed out the road and the diverging path that led to the spot where
her grave was made. I did not ask to accompany him, for I felt his
emotions were too sacred for even his daughter to witness. I mourned
that the desolation of winter was added to the dreariness of death; that
a pall of snow, white as her winding-sheet and cold as her