As soon as Edith had finished her song, he rose to take leave. He came to me last, to the little recess in the window where I stood, and extended his hand as he had done to Mrs. Linwood and Edith. He looked hurt rather than angry, disappointed rather than sad.
"Forgive me," said I, in a low voice; "I value your friendship too much to lose it without an effort."
The tears were in my eyes; I could not help it. I was sorry, for they expressed far more than I meant to convey. I knew it at once by the altered, beaming expression of his countenance.
"Give me smiles or tears, dear Gabriella," he answered, in the same undertone; "only do not forget me, only think of me as I wish to be remembered."
He pressed my hand warmly, energetically, while uttering these words; then, without giving me time to reply, bowed again to Mrs. Linwood and left the room.
"A very fine, promising young man," said Mrs. Linwood, with emphasis.
"A most intelligent, agreeable companion," added the gentle Edith, looking smilingly at me, as if expecting me to say something.
"Very," responded I, in a constrained manner.
"Is that all?" she asked, laying her soft, white hand on my shoulders, and looking archly in my face; "is that all, Gabriella?"
"Indeed, you are mistaken," said I, hastily; "he is nothing more,—and yet I am wrong to say that,—he has been,—he is like a brother to me, Edith, and never will be any thing more."