e in through the upper
part of the windows, glimmered on the dark frame and glassy surface of
the old timepiece, which stood out in bold relief from the whitewashed
wall behind it. Before I knew it, I was composing a poem on that old
hour-glass. It was a hoary pilgrim, travelling on a lone and sea-beat
shore, towards a dim and distant goal, and the print of his footsteps on
the wave-washed sands, guided others in the same lengthening journey.
The scene was before me. I saw the ancient traveller, his white locks
streaming in the ocean blast; I heard the deep murmur of the restless
tide; I saw the footsteps; and they looked like sinking graves; when all
at once, in the midst of my solemn inspiration, a stern mocking face
came between me and the starlight night, the jeering voice of my master
was in my ears, a dishonored fragment was fluttering in my hand. The
vision fled; I turned my head on my pillow and wept.

You may say such thoughts and visions were strangely precocious in a
child of twelve years old. I suppose they were; but I never remember
being a child. My sad, gentle mother, the sober, earnest, practical
Peggy, were the companions of my infancy, instead of children of my own
age. The sunlight of my young life was not reflected from the golden
locks of childhood, its radiant smile and unclouded eye. I was defrauded
of the sweetest boon of that early season, a confidence that this world
is the happiest, fairest, best of worlds, the residence of joy, beauty,
and goodness.

A thoughtful child! I do not like to hear it. What has a little child to
do with thought? That sad, though glorious reversion of our riper and
darker years?

Ah me! I never recollect the time that my spirit was not travelling to
grasp some grown idea, to fathom the mystery of my being, to roll away
the shadows that surrounded me, groping for light, toiling, then
dreaming, not resting. It was no wonder I was weary before my journey
was well begun.

"What a remarkable countenance Gabriella has!" I then often heard it
remarked. "Her features are childish, but her eyes have such a peculiar
depth of expression,--so wild, and yet so wise."

I wish I had a picture of myself taken at this period of my life. I have
no doubt I looked older then than I do now.

CHAPTER V.

I knew the path which led from the boarding-place of Mr. Regulus crossed
the one which I daily traversed. I met him exactly at the point of
intersection, under the shadow