To him I confided my wish to accompany my brother on his filial mission, and he warmly approved it. "As surely as I believe the Lord has put it into your heart to go," said he, "do I believe that a blessing will follow you." Mrs. Linwood was more tardy in her sanction. "My dear child," she said, looking at me with the tenderest compassion, "you do not know what is before you. What will you do in that great city without female friendship and sympathy? You and Richard, both so young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. I will not, however, put any obstacle in his path, for man may go unshrinking where woman may not tread. But you, my Gabriella, must remain with me." "Here, where the phantom of Ernest haunts my every step, where the echo of his voice is heard in every gale, and the shadow of departed joy comes between me and the sunshine of heaven? What can I do here but remind you by my presence of him, whom I have banished for ever from your arms? Let me go, my own dear mother, for I cannot remain passive here. I shall not want female sympathy and guardianship, for Mrs. Brahan is all that is kind and tender, and knows enough of my sad history to be entitled to unbounded confidence. I will write to her, and be guided by her, as if she were another Mrs. Linwood." She yielded at last, and so did Dr. Harlowe, who cheered me by his cordial approval. He said it was the best thing I could do for myself; for change of scene, and a strong motive of action, might save me from becoming a confirmed invalid. Edith wept, but made no opposition. She believed I was in the path of duty, and that it would be made smooth beneath my feet. No tidings from Ernest came to interrupt the dreary blank of his absence,--the same continuity of anxiety and uncertainty stretching on into a hopeless futurity. Again and again I said to myself-- "Better so a thousand times, than to live as I have done, scathed by the lightning of jealousy. Even if he returned, I could not, with the fear of God now before me, renew our unblest wedlock. The hand of violence has sundered us, and my heart fibres must ever bleed from the wrench, but they will not again intwine. He has torn himself ruthlessly from me; and the shattered vine, rent from its stay, is beginning to cling to the pillars of God's temple. It is for _him_ I pray, for _him_ I mourn, rather than myself. It is for his happiness, rather than my own justification, that I desire him to know the history of my innocence. I am willing to drink the cup of humiliation even to the dregs, if it may not pass from me; but spare him, O Heavenly Father, the bitter, bitter chalice."