She little thought how high the "aspiring blood" of mine mounted in that lowly, woodland cottage.
I told her the history of my humiliation, passion, and flight,--of Richard Clyde's brave defence and undaunted resolution,--of my sorrow on his account,--of my shame and indignation on my own.
"My poor Gabriella!" "You are not angry with me, my mother ?" "Angry! No, my child, it was a hard trial,--very hard for one so young.
I did not think Mr.Regulus capable of so much unkindness.

He has cancelled this day a debt of gratitude." "My poor Gabriella," she again repeated, laying her delicate hand gently on my head.

"I fear you have a great deal to contend with in this rough world.

The flowers of poesy are sweet, but poverty is a barren soil, my child.

The dew that moistens it, is tears." I felt a tear on my hand as she spoke.