"But the dresses, mamma," cried Edith; "you know she will need new dresses if she goes, and they will require some time to prepare."
"As Gabriella will not come out, as it is called, till next winter," replied Mrs. Linwood, "it is not a matter of so much consequence as you imagine. Simplicity is much more charming than ornament in the dress of a very young girl."
"I agree with you, mother," observed Ernest, without lifting his eyes from his book, "especially where artificial ornaments are superfluous."
"I did not think you were listening to our remarks about dress," said Edith. "This is something quite new, brother."
"I am not listening, and yet I hear. So be very careful not to betray yourself in my presence. But perhaps I had better retire to the library, then you can discuss with more freedom the mysteries of the toilet and the fascinations of dress."
"No,—no. We have nothing to say that you may not hear;" but he rose and withdrew. Did he mean to imply that "artificial ornaments would be superfluous" to me? No,—it was only a general remark, and it would be vanity of vanities to apply it to myself.
"I want you to do one thing to gratify me, dear Gabriella," continued Edith. "Please lay aside your mourning and assume a more cheerful garb. You have worn it two long years. Only think how long! It will be so refreshing to see you in white or delicate colors."
I looked down at my mourning garments, and all the sorrow typified by their dark hue rolled back upon my heart. The awful scenes they commemorated,—the throes of agony which rent away life from the strong, the slow wasting of the feeble, the solemnity of death, the gloom of the grave, the anguish of bereavement, the abandonment of desolation that followed,—all came back. I lived them all over in one passing moment.
"I never, never wish to lay aside the badges of mourning," I exclaimed; and, covering my face with my handkerchief, tears gushed unrestrainedly. "I shall never cease to mourn for my mother."
"I did not mean to grieve you, Gabriella," cried Edith, putting her arms round me with sympathizing tenderness. "I thought time had softened your anguish, and that you could bear to speak of it now."