She spoke with authority, and I obeyed as if the voice of a superior were addressing me. I obeyed,--but not till I had seen the hue of returning life steal over the marble pallor of her cheek. I wandered into the garden, but the narrow paths, the precise formed beds, the homely aspect of vegetable nature, filled me with a strange loathing. I felt suffocated, oppressed,--I jumped over the railing and plunged into the woods,--the wild, ample woods,--my home,--my wealth,--my God-granted inheritance. I sat down under the oaks, and fixed my eyes upwards on the mighty dome that seemed resting on the strong forest trees. I heard nothing but the soft rustling of the leaves,--I saw nothing but the lonely magnificence of nature. Here I became calm. It seemed a matter of perfect indifference to me then what I did, or what became of me,--whether I was henceforth to be a teacher, a seamstress, or a servant. Every consideration was swallowed in one,--every fear lost in one absorbing dread. I had but one prayer,--"Let my mother live, or let me die with her!" Poverty offered no privation, toil no weariness, suffering no pang, compared to the one great evil which my imagination grasped with firm and desperate clench. Three years had passed since I had lain a weeping child under the shadow of the oaks, smarting from the lash of derision, burning with shame, shrinking with humiliation. I was now fifteen years old,--at that age when youth turns trembling from the dizzy verge of childhood to a mother's guardian arms, a mother's sheltering heart. How weak, how puerile now seemed the emotions, which three years ago had worn such a majestic semblance. I was but a foolish child then,--what was I now? A child still, but somewhat wiser, not more worldly wise. I knew no more of the world, of what is called the world, than I did of those golden cities seen through the cloud-vistas of sunset. It seemed as grand, as remote, and as inaccessible. At this moment I turned my gaze towards the distant cloud-turrets gleaming above, walls on which chariots and horsemen of fire seemed passing and repassing, and I was conscious of but one deep, earnest thought,--"my mother!" One prayer, sole and agonizing, trembled on my lips:-- "Take her not from me, O my God! I will drink the cup of poverty and humiliation to the dregs if thou wilt, without a murmur, but spare, O spare my mother!" God did spare her for a little while. The dark hands on the dial-plate of destiny once moved back at the mighty breath of prayer. CHAPTER VII. "Gabriella,--is it you? How glad I am to see you!"