I had never seen Mrs. Linwood so much agitated. Her eyes glistened, her voice faltered with emotion. Ernest, too, seemed greatly troubled. They had both been accustomed to look upon Edith as consecrated to a vestal life; and as she had hitherto turned coldly and decidedly from the addresses of men, they believed her inaccessible to the vows of love and the bonds of wedlock. The young Julian was a poet as well as an artist; his pictures were considered masterpieces of genius in the painting galleries of the cities; he was, as report said, and as he himself modestly but decidedly affirmed, by birth and education a gentleman; he had the prestige of a rising fame,--but he was a stranger. I remembered my mother's history, and the youth of St. James seemed renewed in this interesting young man. I trembled for the future happiness of Edith, who, whatever might be her decision with regard to marriage, now unmistakably and romantically loved. Again I asked myself, "might not this young man be the son of the unfortunate Theresa, who under an assumed name was concealing the unhappy circumstances of his birth?" "Let us leave this place," said Ernest, "and put a stop at once to the danger we dread. Are you willing, Gabriella, to quit these sublime Falls to-morrow?" "I shall carry them with me," I answered, laughingly. "They are henceforth a part of my own being." "They will prove rather an inconvenient accompaniment," replied he; "and if we turn our face on our return to the White Mountains, will you bring them back also?" "Certainly. Take me the whole world over, and every thing of beauty and sublimity will cling to my soul inseparably and forever." "Will you ask Edith, if she will be ready?" She was in the room which she occupied with her mother, and there I sought her. She was reading what seemed to be a letter; but as I approached her I saw that it was poetry, and from her bright blushes, I imagined it an effusion of young Julian's. She did not conceal it, but looked up with such a radiant expression of joy beaming through a shade of bashfulness, I shrunk from the task imposed upon me. "Dear Edith," said I, laying my hand on her beautiful hair, "your brother wishes to leave here to-morrow. Will you be ready?" She started, trembled, then turned aside her face, but I could see the starting tear and the deepened blush. "Of course I will," she answered, after a moment's pause. "It is far better that we should go,--I know it is,--but it would have been better still, had we never come." "And why, my darling sister? You have seemed very happy." "Too happy, Gabriella. All future life must pay the penalty due to a brief infatuation. I have discovered and betrayed the weakness, the madness of my heart. I know too well why Ernest has hastened our departure."