GILLIAN.
BY
MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.]
CHAPTER I.
THERE is only one moving object that I know of more beautiful than a ship in full sail, and that is a bird upon the wing. Even the little sloop, that tacked in and out of the windings which inake the Hudson so picturesque, had a grace of its own which rendered it the first object in that grand scenery. On it went, with ite white sails spread, and its low bow ducking te ihe water, like some grand aquatic fowl playing withthe foam wreaths its own motion had created; tow in the shadow—now in the sunshine, it gided, with @ pleasant flutter of the sails, and the breath of a soft Indian summer sighing across its deck, so quietly, that the shadows throuzh which it passed, deepened without being broken, and the sunshine laughed around it as it docs when the water-birds are frolicking, turning the foam to pearls and the spray to dia- monds.
Two persons sat upon the deck, a man of fifty, Wrapped in a traveling-cloak of foreign make, and a young girl of seventeen, also muffled, in a cloth mantle, lined with fur, in which she shivered, as you see a poor Italian greyhound under all its pretty housings, when our winter begins to threaten.
Yet the girl was tall and fair, with that beauti- fol trpe of loveliness which makes an American woman a model all over the world: so delicate, © brcht, and, alas! so evanescent is her benuty. Her air was foreign. The wonder with which the gazed abroad upon the hills, clothed in their gorgeous autumnal foliage, bespoke her a stranger to the land; but her grey eyes, the abundance of rich auburn hair that fell in waves from under her heod of blue silk, and the energy of mind that woke in every sweet feature was American, as the gorgeous foliage upon the hill sides.
But there she sat, upon the deck, shivering in ber furs, though the wind came laden with the treath of dying fern leaves, and to a native vend have seemed balmy and fragrant rather than cold,
Papal”
The gentleman started, and looked around With a nervous sort of terror in his eyes. Her voice had drawn his thoughts back from the long ago with a pang, but he answered gently and smiling,
“Well, Gillian?”
The girl had spoken in Italian, and her voice rendered even that sweet language more meloii- ous by its rich tones. Her father answered in English, and in that language she spoke the second time,
“Father, why have we come to this country? Is it to live here forever?”
“It is your native land, Gillian. Look abroad and tell me if Italy is more beautiful?”
“It is strange, gorgeous, oppressively gorgeous, father; but those grand old trees drink up all the warmth. Iam chilled and lonely here.’’
“It is my fault, Gillian. A daughter of America should not be chilled by a wind like this. I have done wrong to keep you away from home till you have forgotten your native land.”
“Not quite, papa. I remember it a little: the spot which I recollect is not like these hills, but a broken country, scattered with houses, with one at the foot of a rugged hill, which seemed to be my home. I only recollect it at one time, and in one way. The door was open; a glow of sunset lay upon the sill, crossing softly along the room in which I sat playing. I remember the very dress I wore. It had a pink tint, and was protected by a little white apron, rounded at the corners, and frilled all round; in that apron I held some flowers, a handful of green apples, and a doll’s tea-set, huddled together.”
The girl paused, smiling: then she suddenly added, with a half forced laugh, for there was something in her father’s eyes that made her hesitate,
“These are trivial things to remember so long, but somehow they will always come up, clear as a picture, when I think of this land. I could almost promise to recognize the very pattern of my dress, on the moment, if it were before me; as for the toys, nothing has ever seemed so pretty to me since.”
“And is this all? Have you no remembrance of the house, or its inmates?” asked the father, in a low voice.
