ed
with an argosy richer than gold,--the treasures of human hearts. I did
not speak my fears, but the sickness of dread settled on my spirits, in
spite of the almost super-human efforts I made to shake it from them.
When my eyes were fixed on my father's paintings, I could see nothing
but storm-lashed billows, wrecking ships, and pale, drowning mariners. I
could see that Mrs. Linwood and Edith participated in my apprehensions,
though they did not give them utterance. We hardly dared to look in each
other's faces, lest we should betray to each other thoughts which we
would, but could not conceal.

The library had been converted into my father's studio. He usually
painted in the mornings as well as Julian; and in the afternoon we rode,
or walked as inclination prompted, and the evenings were devoted to
sewing, conversation, and music.

One afternoon, after returning from a ride about sunset, I went into the
library for a book which I had left there. I never went there alone
without stopping to gaze at the picture of Ernest, which every day
acquired a stronger fascination. "Those eyes of a thousand meanings," as
my father had said, followed me with thrilling intensity whenever I
moved, and if I paused they fixed themselves on me as if never more to
be withdrawn. Just now, as I entered, a crimson ray of the setting sun,
struggling in through the curtained windows, fell warmly on the face,
and gave it such a lifelike glow, that I actually started, as if life
indeed were there.

As I have said before, the library was remote from the front part of the
house, and even Margaret's loud, voluble laugh did not penetrate its
deep retirement. I know not how long, but it must have been very long
that I stood gazing at the picture, for the crimson ray had faded into a
soft twilight haze, and the face seemed gradually receding further and
further from me.

The door opened. Never, never, shall I feel as I did then till I meet my
mother's spirit in another world. A pale hand rested, as if for support,
on the latch of the door,--a face pale as the statues, but lighted up by
eyes of burning radiance, flashed like an apparition upon me. I stood as
in a nightmare, incapable of motion or utterance, and a cloud rolled
over my sight. But I knew that Ernest was at my feet, that his face was
buried in the folds of my dress, and his voice in deep, tremulous music,
murmuring in my ear.

"Gabriella! beloved Gabriella! I am not worthy to be call