he wanted them to, without depriving her of her companion and sister.
She appealed to Dr. Harlowe, in her sweet, bewitching way, which always
seemed irresistible; but he only gave her a genial smile, called me "a
brave little girl," and bade me "God speed." "I wish Richard Clyde were
here," said she, in her own artless, half-childish manner, "I am sure he
would be on my side. I wish brother Ernest would come home, he would
decide the question. Oh, Gabriella, if you only knew brother Ernest!"

If I have not mentioned this _brother Ernest_ before, it is not because
I had not heard his name repeated a thousand times. He was the only son
and brother of the family, who, having graduated with the first honors
at the college of his native State, was completing his education in
Germany, at the celebrated University of Gottingen. There was a picture
of him in the library, taken just before he left the country, on which I
had gazed, till it was to me a living being. It was a dark, fascinating
face,--a face half of sunshine and half shadow, a face of mysterious
meanings; as different from Edith's as night from morning. It reminded
me of the head of Byron, but it expressed deeper sensibility, and the
features were even more symmetrically handsome.

Edith, who was as frank and artless as a child, was always talking of
her brother, of his brilliant talents, his genius, and peculiarities.
She showed me his letters, which were written with extraordinary beauty
and power, though the sentiments were somewhat obscured by a
transcendental mistiness belonging to the atmosphere he breathed.

"Ernest never was like anybody else," said Edith; "he is the most
singular, but the most fascinating of human beings. Oh Gabriella, I long
to have him come back, that you may know and admire him."

Though I knew by ten thousand signs that this absent son was the first
object of Mrs. Linwood's thoughts, she seldom talked of him to me. She
often, when Edith was indulging in her enthusiastic descriptions of him,
endeavored to change the conversation and turn my thoughts in other
channels.

But why do I speak of Ernest Linwood here? It is premature. I was about
to describe a little part of my experience as a village teacher.

Edith had a beautiful little pony, gentle as a lamb, yet very spirited
withal, (for lame though she was, she was a graceful and fearless
equestrian,) which it was arranged that I should ride every morning,
escorted by a servant, w