And so she told her tale:  it was one of pain, of shame, borne, not for herself, but for one near and dear as herself.  Mariana knew the lady, knew the pride and reserve of her nature; she had often admired to see how the cheek, lovely, but no longer young, mantled with the deepest blush of youth, and the blue eyes were cast down at any little emotion.  She had understood the proud sensibility of the character.  She fixed her eyes on those now raised to hers, bright with fast falling tears.  She heard the story to the end, and then, without saying a word, stretched out her hand for the cup.

She returned to life, but it was as one who has passed through the valley of death.  The heart of stone was quite broken in her.  The fiery life fallen from flame to coal.  When her strength was a little restored, she had all her companions summoned, and said to them; “I deserved to die, but a generous trust has called me back to life.  I will be worthy of it, nor ever betray the truth, or resent injury more.  Can you forgive the past?”

And they not only forgave, but, with love and earnest tears, clasped in their arms the returning sister.  They vied with one another in offices of humble love to the humbled one; and, let it be recorded as an instance of the pure honor of which young hearts are capable, that these facts, known to forty persons, never, so far as I know, transpired beyond those walls.

It was not long after this that Mariana was summoned home.  She went thither a wonderfully instructed being, though in ways those who had sent her forth to learn little dreamed of.

Never was forgotten the vow of the returning prodigal.  Mariana could not resent, could not play false.  The terrible crisis, which she so early passed through, probably prevented the world from hearing much of her.  A wild fire was tamed in that hour of penitence at the boarding school, such as has oftentimes wrapped court and camp in its destructive glow.

But great were the perils she had yet to undergo, for she was one of those barks which easily get beyond soundings, and ride not lightly on the plunging billow.

Her return to her native climate seconded the effects of inward revolutions.  The cool airs of the north had exasperated nerves too susceptible for their tension.  Those of the south restored her to a more soft and indolent state.  Energy gave place to feeling, turbulence to intensity of character.

At this time love was the natural guest, and he came to her under a form that might have deluded one less ready for delusion.

Sylvain was a person well proportioned to her lot in years, family, and fortune.  His personal beauty was not great, but of a noble character.  Repose marked his slow gesture, and the steady gaze of his large brown eye, but it was a repose that would give way to a blaze of energy when the occasion called.  In his stature, expression, and heavy coloring, he might not unfitly be represented by the great magnolias that inhabit the forests of that climate.  His voice, like everything about him, was rich and soft, rather than sweet or delicate.