My old love of rhyming, too, rose from the ashes of former humiliation, and I wove many a garland of poesy, though no one but myself inhaled their fragrance or admired their bloom.
"As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,--" So in the solitude of my chamber, in the loneliness of my heart, in the breathing stillness of the night, blossomed the moon-born flowers of poesy, to beautify and gladden my youth.
Thus glided away the last tranquil season of my life.

As was one day, so was the next.

Mrs.Harlowe's clock-work virtues, which never run down, the doctor's agreeable carelessness and imperturbable good-humor, the exceeding kindness of Mr.Regulus, who grew so gentle, that he almost seemed melancholy,--all continued the same.

In reading, writing, thinking, feeling, hoping, reaching forward to an uncertain future, the season of fireside enjoyments and comforts passed,--spring,--summer.
Mrs.Linwood and Edith returned, and I was once more installed in that charming apartment, amid whose rosy decorations "I seemed," as Edith said, "a fairy queen." I walked once more in the moon-lighted colonnade, in the shadow of the granite walls, and felt that I was born to be there.
One evening as I returned home, I saw Edith coming through the lawn to meet me, so rapidly that she seemed borne on wings,--her white drapery fell in such full folds over her crutches it entirely concealed them, and they made no sound on the soft, thick grass.

Her face was perfectly radiant.
"Oh, Gabriella," she exclaimed, "he is coming,--brother is coming home,--he will be here in less than a week,--oh! I am so happy!" And the sweet, affectionate creature leaned her head on my shoulder, and actually sobbed in the fulness of her joy.