"Give him the flowers, and leave the fruit to me," cried Dr. Harlowe, emphatically.
"That the sick, the poor, and the afflicted may be benefited by the act," replied Mrs. Linwood. "Let it be so, Doctor,—and may many a blessing which has once been mine, reward your just and generous distribution of the abounding riches of Grandison Place."
I left one sacred charge with the preceptor of my childhood.
"Let not the flowers and shrubbery around my mother's grave, and the grave of Peggy, wilt and die for want of care."
"They shall not. They shall be tenderly and carefully nurtured."
"And if Margaret comes during our absence, be kind and attentive to her, for my sake, Mr. Regulus."
"I will! I will! and for her own too. The wild girl has a heart, I believe she has; a good and honest heart."
"You discovered it during your homeward journey from New York. I thought you would," said I, pleased to see a flush light up the student's olive cheek. I thought of the sensible Benedict and the wild Beatrice, and the drama of other lives passed before the eye of imagination.
Gloomy must the walls of Grandison Place appear during the absence of its inmates,—that city set upon a hill that could not be hid, whose illuminated windows glittered on the vale below with beacon splendor, and discoursed of genial hospitality and kindly charity to the surrounding shadows. Sadly must the evening gale sigh through the noble oaks, whose branches met over the winding avenue, and lonely the elm-tree wave its hundred arms above the unoccupied seat,—that seat, beneath whose breezy shade I had first beheld the pale, impassioned, and haunting face of Ernest Linwood.