Alone

by Marion Harland

DEDICATION.

To my Brother and Sister.

It is meet that those whose sympathy has been dew and sunshine to the nursery plant, should watch over its transplantation into the public garden. And as this Dedication is the only portion of the book which is new to you, you do not require that it should remind you of the welcome stormy evenings, when I laid down my pen, to read to you the chapters written since our last "select party;" how the fictitious names of my real characters were household words to our trio: and your flattering interest—grateful because sincere—stimulated my flagging spirits in the performance of my task. You know, too, what many may not believe—with what misgivings it was entered upon, and prosecuted; what fears of the licensed critic's ban, and the unlicensed public's sneer;—above all, you comprehend the motive that held me to the work—an earnest desire to contribute my mite for the promotion of the happiness and usefulness of my kind. Coming as it does from my heart—penned under the shadow of our home-altar, I cannot but feel that the mission of my offering is to the hearts of others,—ask for it no higher place than the fireside circle. Readers and judges like yourselves, I may not, do not hope to find; but I trust there are those who will pardon the lack of artistic skill in the plot, or the deficiency of stirring incident, in consideration of the fact, that my story is what it purports to be, a simple tale of life—common joy and sorrow, whose merits, if it has any, consist in its truthfulness to Nature, and the fervent spirit which animated its narration.

MARION HARLAND.

Richmond, 1854.

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[CHAPTER I.]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III.]
[CHAPTER IV.]
[CHAPTER V.]
[CHAPTER VI.]
[CHAPTER VII.]
[CHAPTER VIII.]
[CHAPTER IX.]
[CHAPTER X.]
[CHAPTER XI.]
[CHAPTER XII.]
[CHAPTER XIII.]
[CHAPTER XIV.]
[CHAPTER XV.]
[CHAPTER XVI.]
[CHAPTER XVII.]
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
[CHAPTER XIX.]
[CHAPTER XX.]
[CHAPTER XXI.]
[CHAPTER XXII.]
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIV.]
[CHAPTER XXV.]
[CHAPTER XXVI.]
[CHAPTER XXVII.]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
[CHAPTER XXX.]
[CHAPTER XXXI.]
[CHAPTER XXXII.]
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]

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ALONE.

[CHAPTER I.]

The Sermon was over; the funeral psalm chanted brokenly, by reason of quick-drawn sobs, and bursts of tender remembrance; the heart's tribute to the memory of the departed. "The services will be concluded at the grave," pronounced the clergyman in an unwilling voice; and a shuddering awe fell, as it ever does, upon all. "The Grave!" Even in the presence of the sheeted dead, listening to the rehearsal of excellences lost to earth,—set as living stars in a firmament of unchanging splendor;—we cannot comprehend the dread reality of bereavement. Earth smiles the same; familiar faces surround us; and if the absence of one is painfully noted, the soul would fain delude itself with the belief that his departure is not forever;—"he is not dead, but sleepeth." But "the Grave!" These two words convey an irrevocable sentence. We feel for the first time the extent of the gulf that separates us from the clay, beloved, although inanimate; the dissevering of every bond of companionship. For us the earth has, as before, its griefs, its joys and its duties;—for the dear one—but a grave! The story of a life is ended there. The bearers advanced and took up the coffin. They were no hired officials, performing their work with ill-concealed indifference, or faces robed in borrowed lugubriousness; but old family servants, who had sported with the deceased in infancy; faithfully served her in later years, and had now solicited and obtained this mournful privilege. Tears coursed down their dusky cheeks as they lifted their burden and bore it forth from the portal which seemed to grow darker, as she, the light of the dwelling, quitted it, to return no more. They wound through the flowery labyrinth whose mazes were her care and delight. The dews of evening were beginning to descend upon the thirsting petals, and in the breezeless air hung, in an almost visible cloud, the grateful return of spicy and languishing odors. A tall rose tree drooped over the path, and as the bearers brushed by its stem, a shower, like perfumed snow-flakes, lay upon the pall. The end of the journey was reached; a secluded and beautiful spot in the lower part of the garden, where were many mounds clustered together—graves of a household. A weeping willow, years before, a little shoot, planted by the hand of the wife to mark her husband's resting-place, now grown into a stately tree, swept its feathery pendants above her pillow. The cords were lashed around the coffin, and the word given to lower it into the pit; when—with a shriek that chilled the blood of the bystanders—a slight figure darted forward, and clasped it in her arms. "Mother! oh mother! come back!" Men of iron nerve bowed in childlike weakness, and wept, as this desolate cry rent the air. She spoke not another word, but lay, her cheek to the cold wood, enclosing the colder form, and her fingers interlocked in a vice-like grasp. "Ida! my child!" said the old minister, bending to raise her; "She is not here. She is with her God. Can you wish her again upon this sinful earth?" His consolation was addressed to an ear as dull as that of the corpse. In that outburst of frenzied supplication, consciousness had left her. "It is best so!" said the venerable man. "She could not have borne it else."

The ceremony was concluded—"dust to dust—ashes to ashes;"—and the crowd turned sorrowfully away. It was not in pity for the orphan alone. There were none there who could not recount some deed of love or charity done by her, whom they had given to the earth. Since the deaths of a fondly loved partner and three sweet children, Mrs. Ross had sought balm for her wounds, by binding up those of others. Environed by neighbours, whose position and means were more humble than her own, she had ample exercise for her active benevolence;—benevolence evincing itself,—not in studied graciousness and lavish almsgiving, but in kindly sympathy, and those nameless offices of friendship, so easily rendered, so dear to the recipient. "Her children shall rise up and call her blessed," was the text of her funeral discourse, and the pastor but uttered the feelings of his auditory, when he called the community in which her blameless life had been passed, her family—loving her, and through her, united together in bonds of fraternal affection. In this genial clime, had Ida Ross been nurtured;—beloved for her mother's sake, as for the warm impulses of her generous nature; petted and indulged; yet obeying the least expression of her parent's wishes, not in slavish fear, but a devotion amounting to worship. She had no companions of her own age who were her equals in education or refinement, and from intimate connection with vulgarity she shrank instinctively. Her pride was not offensively displayed. No one could live in the sphere of which Mrs. Ross was the ruling power and feel aught like superciliousness or contempt of inferiors. From infancy, Ida was her mother's companion; at an early age her confidante and co-adviser; had read her pure heart as a richly illuminated missal, from which self-examination and severe criticism had expunged whatever could sully or disfigure. Can we marvel that she shrined her in her heart of hearts as a being more than human—scarcely less than divine?

That mysterious Providence who guides the fowler's messenger of death to the breast of the parent bird, leaving the callow nestling to perish with hunger, recalled the mother's spirit ere her labor of love was completed. Ida was an orphan in her fifteenth year;—the age of all others when a mother's counsels are needed;—when the child stands tremblingly upon the threshold of girlhood, and looks with wondering, wistful eyes into the rosy vista opened to her sight. Babes in knowledge, nine girls out of ten are grown in heart at fifteen. A stroke, whether of extraordinary joy or sorrow, will oftentimes demolish the gew-gaws of the child, and reveal instead, the patient endurance, the steady faith, the all-absorbing love of a woman. A week had passed—a week devoted by the bereaved to thoughts of, and weepings for the lost, by others to preparations for her residence among strangers. Years might elapse before her return. That night, as stealthily as though seeking a forbidden spot, she trod the path to her mother's grave. It was clear starlight, and she sat down beside the newly sodded mound, and rested her brow upon it. Cold—cold and hard! but it entombed her mother;—aye! and her heart! for what had she to love now? There was no loving breast to receive that aching head;—no solace for the wounded spirit. The dew-gems lay freshly upon the grass;—for her the dewiness of life was gone;—earth was one vast sepulchre. She looked up to the stars. In the summer evenings her mother's chair used to stand in the piazza, and she sat at her feet, her eyes fixed alternately upon her angelic face, and the shining orbs above them. Mrs. Ross loved to think of them as the abodes of the blest; the mansions prepared for those who had sojourned in this sin-stained world and yet worn their white robes unblemished; and the theory was confidently adopted by the imaginative child. She drank in descriptions of the glories of those celestial regions until her straining eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of a seraph's glittering robe, and she leaned breathlessly forward to hear the music of his golden harp. But to-night the sparkling smiles of those effulgent ones, "forever singing as they shine," were changed to pitying regards as they beheld her so sad and lonely;—the gleam of the seraph's wings was dimmed; his far-off melody plaintive and low, and the burden of his song was "alone." The wind waved the willow-boughs, and a whispering ran through the leaves—"Alone—alone!" The words were so audibly breathed that the girl started in her delirious sorrow, and gazed wildly around. "Oh mother! cannot you leave Heaven for one short minute to comfort your child? Who will love her now? Alone, all alone! mother! dear mother!"

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[CHAPTER II]

Two persons sat in the parlor of a handsome house situated in a pleasant street of the capital of our Old Dominion. The afternoon of a summer's day was deepening into twilight, but the waning light sufficed to show the features of the occupants. There was no hazard in pronouncing them father and daughter. The square forehead, indicative rather of keenness of perception and shrewd sense, than high intellectual faculties; the full, grey eye; flexible lips, and heavily moulded chin were the same in both, although softened in the younger, until her face might have been deemed pretty, had the observer omitted to remark an occasional steel-like spark, struck from the clear eyes, and a compression of the mouth, betokening a sleeping demon whom it would be dangerous to arouse from his lair. A turbulent light flashed there now. She had thrown herself into the corner of a sofa, after many restless wanderings through the apartment, and the shapely foot, oscillating rapidly, beat with its toe, a tattoo agitato upon the floor. Her father was immersed in thought or apathy. She repeated a question in a voice which savored of peevishness, before he withdrew his eyes from the watch-key, the twirling of which had been his occupation for a quarter of an hour. "At what hour will your ward arrive, sir?"

"She must be here in a short time. They have travelled slowly. The journey might have been accomplished as well in one day, as two."

"You said her escort was a clergyman, I think. Gentlemen of the cloth are not famous for inconveniencing themselves to gratify others," responded the young lady. "They inveigh against the emptiness and vanity of sublunary things; yet I know no class of men who enjoy 'creature comforts' more."

"Confounded humbugs!" was the rejoinder, and a muttered something about "priest-craft" and "blind leaders of the blind" finished the sentence so charitably begun.

Another pause was ended by the daughter. "Miss Ross' father was an early friend of yours,—a college chum,—was he not?"

"He was,—and a clever fellow into the bargain;" said her father, with a touch of feeling in his tone. "At his death, he left to me the management of his child's property,—(a snug operation I have made of it, too!) In the event of the mother's decease, I was appointed sole guardian, an office for which, it must be said, I have little partiality. If Mrs. Ross had given her up to me ten years ago, I might have made something of her; but she said a mother was the proper guide for her daughter. Women are wonderfully self-sufficient,—always undertaking what it would puzzle sensible men to do, and perfectly satisfied with the style in which it is done." If there was any meaning in the severity of this remark, the face and voice of the listener betrayed no consciousness.

"How old is Miss Ross?"

"What is your age?" and seeing her hesitate—"What does the Family Bible say? I want no school-girl airs."

"I am fifteen sir," raising her eyes coolly to his.

"And she is two months younger. A pretty time I shall have for six years; unless she takes it into her head to marry before she is of age. Very probably she will; for her fortune, although small, is large enough to attract some fool, too lazy to work, and too ambitious to remain poor."

"Is she pretty?"

"How should I know? I only saw her at her mother's funeral, where she got up quite a scene—fainting and such like. I came away the next day, and she was still too unwell to leave her room, they said."

"Romantically inclined! Pity she should be doomed to uncongenial associations!"

"You would indeed have profited little by my instructions if your mind were infected by these whimsies," said her parent, with a self-gratulatory air. "I pride myself upon your superiority to the generality of your sex, at least, in this respect"—

"There is a carriage at the door," interrupted the other, in an unvarying tone, and without changing her posture. The host met, in the entry, an elderly gentleman and a young girl, whom he saluted as "Mr. Hall" and "Miss Ross," introducing them to "Miss Read, my daughter." Ida glanced timidly into the face of her guardian, and then hastily scanned that of his daughter. That the scrutiny was unsatisfactory, was to be read in the deeper sadness that fell over her countenance, while the sinking lashes, and trembling lip showed how sharp was the disappointment. Youthful and inexperienced as she was, her heart told her that the bruised tendrils which had been torn from their original support could never learn to twine around these gelid statues.

"You will remain to tea, Mr. Hall," said Mr. Read, as the good clergyman arose.

"I thank you, sir; but our journey has been fatiguing owing to the extreme heat. I find myself in need of rest,—and my charge here requires it more than I do."

"You will call before you leave the city. May we not hope for the pleasure of your company to dinner to-morrow?"

The invitation was accepted; and after a silent pressure of the hand from Ida, and a courtly bow from father and daughter, Mr. Hall took his leave.

"Miss Ross would perhaps like to make some alteration in her dress, Josephine," Mr. Read said; his manner testifying how necessary he esteemed the proposed measure. Miss Read rang for a light, and signified to Ida that she was ready to show her up stairs. Any change from the bleak formality of their presence was a relief; and she longed to be alone, if but for half an hour, that she might give way to the emotions which had been rising and beating, through the livelong day, choking and blinding her. But Miss Read summoned a servant, whom she ordered to wait upon Miss Ross, now and in future; and seated herself in a rocking-chair to watch the progress of the toilette. Mechanically Ida went through the torture of dressing. There are times when it is such;—when the manifold details, heretofore so engaging, are to the preoccupied and suffering mind, like the thorn of the prickly-pear, too small to be observed, but pricking burningly in every fibre and pore. It was a woman—a sister—a girl as young as herself—perhaps as tender-hearted, who sat there. Why not, with the unrepressed sorrowfulness of a child, bury her face in her lap, and sob, "I have lost my mother!" to be fondled and comforted into composure? It would be sacrilege to ruffle the elegant propriety of her figure; and the glassy eyes said, by their tearless stare,—"Between you and me there is a great gulf fixed!" One weakness Ida could not overcome; the repugnance to beholding herself in her mourning garments. They as yet reminded her too vividly of the bier and the pall. She averted her eyes, as she stood before the mirror, to put the finishing stroke to her apparel. "I beg your pardon," said the calm voice of Josephine. "Your collar is all awry. Permit me"—Ida submitted in silence, while her volunteer assistant unpinned, and re-arranged the crape folds, but as she gathered them under the mourning brooch, a tear, large and pellucid, dropped upon her hand. It was but a drop of salt water to Miss Read, and she wiped it off, as she asked her guest "to walk down to tea." To the new-comer, the palatable food was as the apples of Sodom—bitter ashes. She could not swallow or speak. Her companions ate and chatted with great gusto. The ill-humour of an hour since had passed away. This exemplary daughter was her father's idol, when contrasted with other, and less favored girls. She was formed in his image, and when the plastic mind was wax to receive, and adamant to retain impressions, he moulded it after a pattern of his own. He taught her deceit, under the name of self-control; heartlessness, he called prudence; veiled distrust and misanthropy under clear-sightedness and knowledge of human nature. All those holy and beautiful feelings which evidence to man his kindred to his Divine model and Creator, he tossed aside, with the sweeping condemnation—"romance and nonsense!" The crying sin was to be "womanish;"—"woman" and "fool" were synonymes, used indiscriminately to express the superlative of ire-exciting folly. He delighted in showing things as they were. Men were machines, moved by secret springs of policy and knavery; the world a stage, viewed by others in the deceptive glare of artificial lights, and so made attractive. He had penetrated into the mysteries behind the curtain, and examined, in the unflattering day, the clumsy contrivances, gaudy daubing and disgustful hollowness of the whole. Fancy and the pleasures of imagination were empty, bombastic names; he would have seen in Niagara only a sizeable fall, and "calculated," amidst the rushing shout of its mighty waters, as to the number of cotton-mills it would turn, and the thousands it would net him, could he transport it, patent right secured, to Virginia. He tore the cloud-covering from the storm-god's brow, and beheld a roaring, vaporing giant, whose insane attacks might be warded off by philosophical precautions, and discretion in the disposition of lightning rods.

The party returned to the parlor. "You play, I presume, Miss Ross?" said her guardian. Inexpressibly hurt by this new proof of insensibility to her situation, Ida faltered an excuse of fatigue and want of practice; and with a very perceptible shrug, he addressed his daughter. "What apology have you, Josephine?" She replied by going to the instrument, but had just taken her seat, when the door opened to admit three visitors—two school-fellows of Miss Read's, and their brother. "The Misses and Mr. Talbot" were presented in due form to the stranger, who had risen to leave the room. Josephine saw the movement, and arrested it by the introduction. No attention was paid to her; and in the midst of the lively conversation, she seized an opportunity to speak aside to Josephine. "I wish to retire, if you please." Josephine started. If not so measured, the tone was as haughty as hers, at its proudest pitch. With a word of apology to her guests, she led the way into the hall, and lighted a lamp. Ida took it from her. "I will go up without you. Good night." She walked up the staircase with a steady step, for she was followed by a gaze of wonderment and anger; but when her chamber was gained, she sprang through the door—locked and double locked it, and dashed herself upon the floor. A hurricane raged within her—grief, outraged feeling and desperation. The grave had gorged her past, black walls of ice bounded the future. Meanwhile the sound of jocund voices came up through the flooring; bursts of laughter; and then music; brilliant waltzes and triumphant marches, to where the orphan lay sobbing, not weeping, with hysterical violence; her hands clenched upon her temples, through which each convulsion sent a pang that forced from her a moan of anguish.

"She is a weak, foolish baby! it will take an immensity of schooling to make her endurable;" said Mr. Read, when the guests had gone.

"She has temper enough, in all conscience!" rejoined Josephine, and she related the scene preceding her withdrawal.

"Bad! bad!" ejaculated the senior, with a solemn shake of the head. "I admire spirit in a girl; but a woman should have no temper!"

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[CHAPTER III.]

In a crowded school-room, on a glorious October morning, a student was penning, with slow and heavy fingers, an Italian exercise. A physiognomist's eye would have wandered with comparative carelessness over the faces,—so various in feature and character—by which she was surrounded, and found in hers, subject for curious speculation; wondering at the contradictory evidence her countenance and form gave of her age; the one, sombre in its thoughtfulness, its dark eyes piercing through his, into his soul, said twenty—perhaps thirty—the lithe figure and rounded limbs, sixteen; but most, he would have marvelled at the listlessness of her attitude; the lack of interest in her occupation and external objects, when every line, in brow, eyes and mouth, bespoke energy; a spirit strong to do or dare; and which, when in arms, would achieve its purpose, or perish in the attempt. The hand moved more and more sluggishly, and the page was marred by blots and erasures. Thought had the crayon, and dark were the shades that fell upon the canvass. "Seventeen to-day! Who remembers that it is my birth-day? There are none here to know or care. If I were to die to-morrow, there is not a creature who would shed a tear above my corpse. I wish I could die! They say such thoughts are sinful, but annihilation is preferable to an aimless, loveless existence. Oh! this intolerable aching, yearning for affection—it is eating into my soul! gnawing, insatiable longing! can I not quiet you for an instant? I have intellect—genius—so says the world. I have sacrificed to knowledge, reason and poesy;—praying, first, for happiness, then comfort, then forgetfulness—to cast myself down, the same heart-sick, famished creature! Our examination was an imposing affair. The élite of intelligence and fashion honored us with their presence. The prizes for which others had expended sleepless nights and toilsome days, were for me, who had scarcely put forth an effort; and as the music swelled out to celebrate my victory—blent with the applause of my critics, my heart beat! I had not felt it before for a long, long time,—and as in a lightning flash, I saw what I might—what I would have been, had the sunshine of love been continued to me. But the pitchy cloud rolled over the dazzling opening, and I was again a stranded wreck upon a barren shingle—the wailing monotone of the deep in my ear. I read to them, that a tile was once cast upon an acanthus root, and the hardy plant thrust its arms in every direction, until they felt the light, then coiled in spiral waves, to convert their oppressor into a thing of beauty;—and bade them recognize in the Corinthian capital, an emblem of Truth, which had in all ages owed much of its transcendent loveliness to the tyranny that sought to stifle its growth;—and when I pointed to it as a type of our national freedom, I was forced to stop,—for snowy handkerchiefs perfumed the air, and eager hands beat a rapturous 'encore;' and I was reading a written lie! for my heart was dying—puny and faded—beneath its weight. Intellect! a woman's intellect! I had rather be little Fanny Porter, with her silly, sweet face, and always imperfect lessons, than what I am. She has a father, mother, brothers, sisters, who dote upon her. Nourished upon fondness, she asks love of all, and never in vain. If I could dream my life away, I should be content. I love to lock my door upon the real world, and unbar the portals of my fairy palace—my thought-realm. Those long delicious reveries which melt so sweetly into my night-visions—and the blessed rainy days spent by Josephine in worsted work! Yet all this is injurious—I am enervating my mind—destroying every faculty of usefulness. To whom can I be useful! 'Do your duty in your home'—said the sermon last Sabbath. I have no home—no friends—I am cut off from my species. Tired of the world at seventeen! weary of a life I may not end! Seventeen! seventeen! would it were seventy or seven! I should be nearer my journey's end—or once more a happy child, nestling in my mother's bosom!"

"Forgive me," said a gentle voice, "but your exercise is not finished, and it is near Signer Alboni's hour." The speaker was the owner of the adjoining desk. As their eyes met, hers beamed with sympathy and interest. Ida knew nothing of the wretchedness expressed in her features, but she felt the agony at heart, and taken unawares, she could not entirely repress the tide that sprang to her lids at this unexpected kindness. Ashamed of what she had been "schooled" to consider a weakness, she lowered her head over her writing, until the long curls hid her face. "Signor Alboni, young ladies!" called out Mr. Purcell, the principal of the seminary. Ida surveyed the unsightly sheet in dismay, but there was no time for alteration, and she repaired with the rest to the recitation-room.

Signor Alboni was a gaunt, bilious-looking Italian, whom a residence of ten years in America had robbed of all national characteristics, except a fiery temper. The girls feared and disliked him; but he was a popular and efficient teacher, and in virtue of these considerations, Mr. Purcell was inclined to overlook minor disadvantages. Ellen Morris, whose fun-making propensities no rules or presence could restrain, soon set in circulation a whispered report, that their "amiable professor had had a severe return of dyspeptic symptoms since their last lesson;"—and "don't you think he has a queer taste? They say his favorite drink is a decoction of saffron, spiced with copperas! No wonder he looks so like a piece of new nankeen." Then an impromptu conundrum, pencilled upon a fly-leaf, went the rounds of the class. "If a skeleton were asked to describe his sensations in one word, whose name would he pronounce?" Black, brown and sunny tresses were shaken, and smiling mouths motioned,—"We give it up." Ellen scribbled the answer,—"All-bone-I."

It is a singular fact, that when one person is the unconscious cause of amusement to others—although ignorant of their ridicule, he often experiences an odd feeling of displeasure with himself and the whole world,—a sudden fit of spleen, venting itself upon those who richly deserve the wrath, which in his sane moments, he acknowledges was unprovoked. It was impossible for the signor to observe the laughing faces that sought refuge behind open books and friendly shoulders, for he was occupied in the examination of the pile of manuscripts laid upon his desk, yet his brow was more and more wrinkled each second, and when he spoke, his tone was, as Ellen afterwards described—"as musical as that of a papa lion, administering a parental rebuke to his refractory offspring."

"Miss Porter!"

Poor Fanny's eyes started from their sockets, as she uttered a feeble response.

"Receive your exercise," tearing it in half, and giving her the fragments. "Remain after school-hours, and re-write it; also prepare the next one in addition to your lesson for to-morrow. Miss Morris, where do you purchase your ink?"

"Of Messrs. Politeness, Manners & Co.," she retorted, with an innocent smile. "You never deal there, I believe, sir?"

"Silence!" vociferated the infuriated foreigner. "Rest assured, Miss, I shall report your impertinence to Mr. Purcell. Miss Carleton!" and Ida's neighbour replied. "I find no important errors in your theme, but your chirography lacks dignity and regularity."

With a respectful courtesy, the paper and hint were received; and if a smile played around her mouth, as she contrasted her delicate characters with the stiff, upright hand, in which the corrections were made, he did not see it.

"You had some incontestable reason for omitting to write, Miss Ross," with a sardonic grin; "into its nature I shall not inquire, but plead guilty to curiosity to know the name of the friend who did your work, and appended your name to his or her elegant effort."

Ida was not of a disposition to brook insolence, and she answered with spirit,—"The exercise is mine, sir."

"By right of possession, I suppose?"

"It was written by myself."

"Do I believe you, when my eyes tell me this is neither your hand-writing or style? Who was your accomplice in this witty deception?"

"Sir!"

"Who wrote this theme?" he thundered, maddened by her contempt.

"I have told you—I did. No one else has seen it."

"You lie!"

With one lightning glance, she arose; but he placed himself between her and the door.

"Let me pass!" she ordered.

"Signor Alboni!" said Miss Carleton, who had before endeavored to make herself heard, "I can certify to the truth of Miss Ross' statement. I saw her commence and complete her manuscript."

"Aha! yet she says it has been seen only by herself. You must tutor your witnesses more carefully. They convict, instead of exculpate."

"If you hint at collusion between Miss Ross and myself, I can say that we never exchanged a word until an hour since. My desk adjoins hers; it was this circumstance which furnished me with the knowledge of her morning's occupation."

"I beg you will not subject yourself to further insult, upon my account," interrupted Ida, whose figure had dilated and heightened during the colloquy;—then to him—"Once more I command you to stand aside! If you do not obey, I shall call Mr. Purcell." As if he had heard the threatened appeal, the principal appeared in the doorway, in blank astonishment at the novel aspect of affairs. Alboni commenced a hurried jargon, inarticulate through haste and rage; Ida stood with folded arms, her countenance settled in such proud scorn as Lucifer would have envied and striven to imitate. The prudent preceptor perceived at a glance the danger of present investigation; and abruptly declaring the lesson concluded, appointed an hour on the morrow for a hearing of the case. That evening, for the first time in many months, Ida voluntarily sought her guardian's presence. Josephine was in her room, and he was left to the enjoyment of solitude and the newspaper. He arose at the approach of his visitant, and offered her a chair. In these little matters of etiquette, he was particular to punctiliousness; carrying his business habits of law and order into every thing. The paper was replaced upon the stand; the spectacles wiped and returned to their case; and those matter-of-fact eyes raised with an interrogative look.

"You have been informed of the altercation that occurred in the Italian class to-day?" Ida said, waiving the preliminary remarks.

"Josephine mentioned it."

"May I ask what was her version of it?"

"It was a statement of facts."

"Doubtless. Then, sir, you are aware that I have been wantonly and grossly insulted by a man for whom I have no respect; that in the presence of the entire class, I was forced to listen to language, which, uttered by one man to another, would be met by prompt chastisement; you are furthermore advised of the fact that he, whose duty it is to protect those whom he instructs, instead of compelling the creature to apologize upon his knees, 'postponed inquiry until to-morrow.'"

"And very properly, too."

"Unquestionably, sir!" with the sarcastic smile which accompanied her former assent. "My object in seeking this interview, is to request your attendance upon that occasion. I shall not be present."

"And why not?"

"Because, sir, I will not be confronted with that odious reptile, and give my testimony in his hearing. Judging from the past, and the knowledge of mankind I have acquired under your tuition, nothing that I can say will avail to secure me justice. Mr. Purcell cannot obtain a better teacher, and it is as politic in Alboni to remain. There will be an amicable settlement; and my word will be a knot in the chain of satisfactory evidence they will elicit. The young ladies will, of course, side with 'the gentlemen.'"

"But why am I to be there?—to receive Alboni's apology?"

"I want none, sir—I will hear none. I have been called a liar! his pitiful life could not expiate the offence!"

"You are savage, young lady! you wish, perhaps, that I should pistol him."

"I thank you, sir, for recalling by your ridicule, the remembrance that this is a business interview. What I ask is this:— that you announce to Signor Alboni the termination of my studies with him, and pay his bill."

"Do you know, that although it is only the second week of the session, you will be charged for the term?"

"I do, sir."

"What if I refuse to discharge the debt?"

"I shall liquidate it with the money intended for my personal expenses."

"And if I forbid this, and command you to continue your lessons?"

"I shall refuse obedience to a demand you have not the right to make."

"Miss Ross! do you know to whom you are speaking?"

"I address Mr. Read."

"And your guardian, young lady!"

"The guardian of my property, sir."

"You are under no obligations to me, I suppose."

"None that I am conscious of. You are paid for your services and my board."

"There are cares for which money can offer no adequate compensation."

"Indeed, sir! I thought gold a cure for every ill; a reward for every toil. But we are digressing. You will do as I wish?"

"Resume your seat, if you please! The hope that I might have regarded your request favorably, is lessened by your unbecoming deportment. You are ignorant of any benefits I have conferred upon you! Since you will have a debit and credit account, I will enlighten you on this point. You came into this house two years ago—a romantic, sentimental, mawkish, spoiled child; weeping at every word which happened to jar upon your exquisite sensibilities; an unsophisticated simpleton; a fit prey for any bungler in deception; unformed in manner; womanish in feeling, and extravagant in expression. You have now, although but seventeen years of age, more sense and self-possession than most women of double your years; control the weaknesses which rendered you so ridiculous; are accomplished and respected; in short, I say it without flattery to myself, or to you, bid fair to fill your position in society creditably. You have still obstacles to surmount; but I have judged your failings leniently, attributing them, mainly, to the defects in your early training. If your mother had had the wisdom and discretion"—

"Stop, sir, stop!" exclaimed the girl, rising from her chair, and trembling in every limb with excitement "Take not the name of my holy mother upon your lips—still less cast the shadow of reproach upon her conduct! You have taught me the corruption of human nature,—have crushed all the warm affections I had been instructed to cherish;—have made the life my young mind pictured so inviting, a desert waste, inhabited by wily monsters;—but over the wreck there shines one ray, the memory of an angel lent to earth! For her sake I live among those whose form she wore, but with whose foul hearts hers could have had no fellowship. You tell me she was like the rest, that the religion, in her so lovely, is a delusion—and I answer, I do not believe you. In her name I refute your vile sophisms! Heaven knows how little I have profited by her counsels and example. I loathe myself! 'A woman,' you said! rather a fiend! for such is woman when she buries her heart, nor mourns above its grave. 'Control my feelings!' I do! I have driven back the tears until the scalding waves have killed whatever in my soul could boast a heavenly birth. There is nothing there to prove my relationship to my mother, but her memory. When that is destroyed I shall go mad. I am on the verge of insanity now—I often am! I do not doubt your assertions as to your, and shame on me that I should say it, my brethren; for in yourself I see all the traits you ascribe to them. Woman, you say, belongs to an order of yet inferior beings; and in your daughter I have an illustration of this; for she inherits her father's character, combined with a meaner mind. You consider that I owe you respect,—I do not! I am superior to you both, for I still struggle with the emotions our Creator kindled up within us, and sent us to earth to extinguish. Within your bosoms there are only cold ashes. Frown as you please! your anger intimidates as little as your ridicule abashes. The idea once entered my mind that I could win you and your child to love me. I could laugh at the thought; that was in my sentimental days, when I deemed that the desolate orphan must find affection somewhere. My most 'extravagant' imaginings never paint such a possibility now. I have done. We understand each other. The contempt you had for the 'mawkish' baby, cannot equal mine for you. You will say no more of obligation and respect. I despise you, and I owe you nothing?"

"Is the girl mad in good earnest?" gasped the cause of this burning torrent, as the door closed upon her. "She's a dangerous customer when her blood is up—a perfect Vesuvius, and I came near being Herculaneum or Pompeii. I've seen Ross in these tantrums, when we were chums together. She looked like her father when she said she was my superior. Bah!" He picked up his "Enquirer," but the political news was stale and vapid: the "Whig" was tried with no better success. In the centre of the racy editorial, and oddly mixed with the advertisements, was that incarnation of pride and passion, which through her eyes, more plainly than her lips, said, "I despise you, and I owe you nothing." Thus stood her part of the account he had proposed to examine.

---

[CHAPTER IV.]

Miss Carleton acknowledged the appearance of her desk-mate on the succeeding morning, by an inclination of the head and a smile; and nothing more passed between them until the hour for Italian. She paused, seeing that Ida retained her seat. "Are you not going in?" she ventured to ask.

"No."

There was a moment of hesitation, and she spoke again. "I would not appear to dictate, but do you not fear Mr. Purcell may construe your non-attendance into disrespect to himself?"

"I fear nothing," was upon Ida's tongue, but her better nature would not allow her to return rudeness for what, suspicion could torture into nothing but disinterested kindness. With a gleam of her former frankness she looked up at her interlocutor, "You do not know as much as I do, or you would understand the inutility of my presence at the trial which comes off this morning. I would avoid a repetition of yesterday's scene. One will suffice for a life-time."

"You met then with insult and injustice. To-day, Mr. Purcell will shield you from both. As a gentleman, and a conscientious judge, he cannot but see that Alboni's attack was uncalled for, and decide against him."

"No man is conscientious when his conscience militates against his purse and popularity."

Miss Carleton seemed shocked, and Ida added, hastily, "Our views upon this, as upon most subjects, are very different, I fancy; therefore, discussion is worse than useless. In this instance, my determination is taken;" and she opened her book.

"I will not attempt to shake it," replied her companion. "But suffer me to hope for a longer conversation at some future time, upon these topics, concerning which you think we differ. There may be some points of agreement, and I, for one, am open to conviction."

Again was Ida thrown off her guard, and the smile that answered irradiated her face like a sudden sunbeam. But when her class-mate had gone, she thought,—"Weak fool! the reserve I have striven for two years to establish, melted by a soft speech of a school-girl. She is one of the would-be 'popular' sort, and would worm herself into confidence by an affectation of sympathy and sweetness."

"Miss Ross," said Mr. Purcell, a while later, coming up to her desk, "you will do me the favor to meet me in my study at two o'clock."

At the time designated, she walked with a stately tread through the long school-room, unabashed by the hundred curious eyes bent upon her; for a summons to "the study" was an event of rare occurrence, and had been heretofore the harbinger of some important era in the annals of school-dom. Ida was prepared for every thing partiality could dictate, and tyranny execute; but Mr. Purcell was alone, and his demeanor anything but menacing. "He thinks to cajole me," whispered the fell demon Distrust, and her heart changed to steel.

"Miss Ida," began the principal, mildly, "this is your third session in this institution, and I can sincerely declare that during that time, your propriety of behaviour, and diligence in study have not been surpassed. I have never had a young lady under my care, whose improvement was more rapid—of whose attainments I was more proud; but I regret to say, never one whose confidence I failed so signally to gain. A teacher's task, my dear Miss Ross, is at best an arduous one, but if he receive no recompense for his toil in the affection of those for whom he labors, his life is indeed one of cheerless drudgery. You appear to regard me as a mere machine. For a time I attributed your reserve to diffidence, and trusted that time and my efforts would dissipate it. On the contrary, the distance between us has increased. You hold yourself aloof from your school-mates, repelling every offered familiarity, yet I have seen you weep after such an act. Your cheek glows with enthusiasm when your favorite studies engage your mind, and you relapse into frigid hauteur when recalled to the actual world around you. You have feeling as well as intellect—you are acting a part assumed from some unaccountable fancy; or, I would rather believe, put upon you by necessity. The evidence of your want of reliance in my friendship which you have given me to-day, has determined me to speak candidly with you. I would not wrest a confession from you which you might afterwards repent, but I entreat you to look upon me as a friend who has a paternal love for each member of his numerous family, who desires to see you happy, and asks—not your confidence, but that you will let him serve you."

Ida sat like a statue. He resumed in a tone of disappointment—

"As to the unjustifiable charge brought by Signor Alboni—I am aware how galling is even the appearance of humiliation upon so proud a spirit. I have investigated the matter carefully. The testimony of your friend, Miss Carleton, would of itself have been sufficient to exonerate you. It was confirmed by the voice of the class, and the inevitable consequence is, that Signor Alboni no longer has a place in my school. I can safely promise that the teacher I have selected in his stead, will oppose no impediment to your progress."

Shame for her unjust accusations, and remorseful gratitude pierced Ida's bosom. Greatly agitated, she approached her instructor, when Mr. Read walked in;—a cynical iceberg! Every generous emotion—all softness vanished on the instant. His inquiring glance encountered one as freezing. "I will not detain you longer, Mr. Purcell," she said, as if concluding a business arrangement. "As nearly as I can understand, your object in sending for me was to secure me as a pupil of the new language-master. Having undertaken the study of the Italian, I prefer going through with the course. Mr. Read will settle the terms. Good afternoon, gentlemen;" and with the mien of a duchess she left them.

Mr. Read "had been delayed by pressing business. Miss Ross requested him to see Signor Alboni—was sorry he was late—presumed all was right, etc.," and walked out again. Mr. Purcell was too much hurt, and too indignant at his pupil's conduct, to care whether he stayed or not.

The misguided girl had alienated a true friend, and she knew it—felt it in her heart's core. In the solitude of her chamber she wept bitter tears: "I have cast away the gem for which I would sell my soul! While I thirsted for the waters of affection, I struck down the hand that held them to my lip. It is my fate—I was not born to be loved—I hate myself—why should I inspire others with a different feeling?"

In vain she tried to reason herself into a belief of Mr. Purcell's insincerity. Truth speaks with a convincing tongue, and she knew that the imputation of interested motives she had hurled at him in the unfortunate revulsion of feeling, was unfounded.

In intermission next day, a note was laid upon Ida's desk, inscribed in towering capitals, to "Misses Ross and Carleton;" It ran thus:—

"At a large and enthusiastic meeting of the Italian class of Mr. Purcell's Young Ladies' Female Seminary, convened on yesterday afternoon, the succeeding resolutions were proposed, and carried unanimously:

"Resolved, That whereas, Miss Ida Ross and Miss Caroline Carleton, members of the aforesaid class, have, by their spirited independence delivered us from an oppression as grinding as that under which our Revolutionary forefathers groaned, a vote of thanks shall be tendered them in the name of their compatriots. And—

"Resolved, Moreover, that we bind ourselves to assist them by our united suffrages in the attainment of any honor for which they shall hereafter be candidates, whether the dunce-block or the gold medal.

Anna Talbot, Chairman.
Ellen Morris, Secretary.

The event which had elicited this public manifestation, was to Ida, connected with too much that was unpleasant, to allow her to smile at the pompous communication. She passed it gravely to her neighbor. She laughed at the ludicrous repetition of feminist in the second line, and at the conclusion, bounded upon the platform where stood Mr. Purcell's desk, and commenced a flourishing harangue "for herself and colleague," expressing their gratitude at the flattering tribute from their fellow-laborers, and pledging themselves to uphold forever their honor and lawful privileges. "In the language of your eloquent resolution, my sisters, we form a 'Young Ladies' Female Seminary'—womanfully will we battle for woman's rights."

"Hush-h-h!" and Mr. Purcell was discovered standing behind the crowd. He stood aside to let the blushing orator return to her seat, remarking in an under-tone as she passed, "I must take care to enlist such talents in my service—I shall be undone if they are directed against me."

"Oh Carry! what did he say?" whispered Fanny Porter.

"Nothing very dreadful," she returned, laughingly. Ida looked on in surprise, Josephine with scorn; but to the majority, this little episode in their monotonous life was a diverting entertainment.

"Give me a girl who is not too proud to relish a joke," said Ellen Morris. "Ida Ross is above such buffoonery. She would not have demeaned her dignity before the school."

"But Carry spoke for her too," said Emma Glenn, a meek, charitable creature: "Perhaps modesty, not pride, kept her silent."

"Fiddlesticks!" was the school-girlish rejoinder.

Ida had missed a chance for making herself popular. The girls were moved to admiration by her manner of resenting Alboni's rudeness, and their joy at getting rid of him, assumed the shape of gratitude to their champion. She was for the hour a heroine, and might have retained her stand, but for her cool treatment of their advances. She saw, without understanding the reason of the change, that there was now a mingling of dislike in their neglect; and as she sank in their esteem, Carry mounted. Mr. Purcell never noticed her out of the recitation room—Mr. Read was more lofty—Josephine more contemptuous than ever. Inmates of one house—occupying adjacent chambers—sitting at the same board at home, and within speaking distance at school, the two girls had not one feeling in common—a spark of affection one for the other. Open ruptures were infrequent now, although they were innumerable during the first months of their companionship. They appeared together in public—this Mr. Read enjoined "It was due to his reputation, people should not say that his daughter's privileges exceeded his ward's." Further than this he did not interfere. He saw them only at meal-times, and in the evening; then Josephine presided over the tea-tray with skill and grace, and amused him, if he wished it, by reading, singing or talking. Ida did as she pleased. There were no requirements, no privations. In the eyes of the world her situation was unexceptionable. They knew nothing of the covert sneers which smiled down any tendency to what the torpid minds of the father and daughter considered undue enthusiasm; their sarcastic notice of her "singularities," their studied variance with her views;—but to her, bondage and cruelty would have been more tolerable. Yet this mocking surveillance—this certainty of ridicule, could not always check the earnest expression of a grasping intellect and ardent temperament; and there were not a few who frequented the house, who preferred the piquancy of her conversation, when they could draw her out of the snow-caverns of her reserve, to the trite common-places and artificial spirits of Miss Read.

Among these was Mr. Dermott, an Irish gentleman of considerable scientific renown, and a traveller of some note; hard upon forty years of age, but enjoying life with the zest of twenty. Ida's intelligent countenance had pleased him at their introduction, and having letters to Mr. Read, he embraced every opportunity to improve the acquaintance.

"I shall not go to school to-day," said Josephine, one morning, "father expects Mr. Dermott and several other gentlemen to dine with him, and I cannot be spared. He says you must come home in time for dinner."

"As school breaks up at three, and you will not dine before five, there was no need to issue the command;" said Ida, irritated at her arrogant tone.

"Very well, I have delivered the message."

Mr. Read was dissatisfied that his ward did not enter the drawing-room until dinner was announced. "It did not look well,"—and her nonchalant air and slight recognition of the party, did not "speak well for his bringing up." But the current veered before meal was over. The fowls were under-done, and the potatoes soaked. His glance of displeasure at his daughter was received with such imperturbability, that he chafed at the impossibility of moving her, and his desire to render somebody uncomfortable. The latter wish was not left ungratified. One after another felt the influence of his lowering brow, and imitated his silence, until Mr. Dermott and Ida were the only ones who maintained a connected conversation. He talked fluently with the humor peculiar to his countrymen, and had succeeded in interesting his listener. She had naturally a happy laugh, which in earlier years rung out in merry music; and as the unusual sound startled him from time to time, Mr. Read took it as a personal affront. Could not she see that he was out of temper? He had punished the rest for the cook's misdeeds, how dare she, while they sat 'neath the thunder cloud of his magnificent wrath, sport in the sunshine? It was audacious bravado. She should rue it ere long. Josephine readily obeyed his signal to leave the table, so soon as it could be done with a semblance of propriety. "I will hear the rest, by and by," said Ida to Mr. Dermott, "au revoir." Neither of the girls spoke after quitting the dining-room. Josephine lay upon a lounge, with half-closed lids, apparently drowsy or fatigued, in reality, wakeful and watching. Ida walked back and forth, humming an Irish air—pleased and thoughtful. Then taking from the book-case a volume of "Travels," she employed herself in looking it over.

"See!" said she, at Mr. Dermott's reappearance, "it is as I thought. This author's account varies, in some respects, from yours; and at the peril of my place in your good graces, I must declare my prejudices to be with him. A spot so celebrated, so sacred in its associations, cannot be as uninteresting as you would have me to think. Come, confess, that the jolting camel and surly guide were accessories to your discontent."

Josephine lost the answer, and much that followed. She was joined by young Pemberton, a fop of the first water, with sense enough to make him uneasy in the society of the gifted, and meanness to rejoice in their discomfiture and misfortune. For the rest, he was weak and hot-headed, a compound of conceit and malice. Time was when he admired Ida. He had an indefinite notion that a clever wife would reflect lustre upon him; and a very decided appreciation of her more shining and substantial charms.

Her repulse was a mortal offence: small minds never forget, much less pardon a rebuke to their vanity, and he inly swore revenge. But how to get it? She rose superior to his witless sarcasms, and more pointed slights; reversing the arrows towards himself, and his mortification heated into hatred. Josephine was aware of this feeling, and its cause; and while despising, in a man, a weakness to which she was herself a prey, foreseeing that he might prove a convenient tool, she attached him to her by suasives and flatteries.

"It is a positive relief to talk to you, Miss Josephine," he yawned, "I am surfeited with literature and foreigners. These travelled follows are outrageous bores, with their bushy moustachios and outlandish lingo. How the ladies can fawn upon them as they do, I cannot comprehend."

"Do not condemn us all for the failings of a part. There are those who prefer pure gold to gilded trash."

"For your sake, I will make some exceptions," with a "killing" look. "But what do you imagine to be the object of that flirtation? No young lady of prudence or proper self-respect, would encourage so boldly the attentions of a stranger. Supposing him to be what he represents, (a thing by no means certain,) she cannot intend to marry him—a man old enough to be her father!"

"But, 'unison of tastes,' 'concord of souls,' etc., will go far towards reconciling her to the disparity of years," observed Josephine, ironically; not sorry to strike upon this tender point. He tried to laugh, but with indifferent success.

Ida's voice reached them, and they stopped to listen.

"I am afraid my conceptions of Eastern life and scenery are more poetical than correct. I picture landscapes sleeping in warm, rich, 'Syrian sunshine,' 'sandal groves and bowers of spice,'

'Ruined shrines, and towers that seem
The relics of some splendid dream,'—

such a Fairy Land as ignorance and imagination create."

"The Utopia of one who studies Lalla Rookh more than 'Eastern Statistics,' or 'Incidents of Travel,'" said Mr. Dermott, smiling. "Yet Moore's descriptions are not so much overwrought as some suppose. His words came continually to my tongue. He has imbibed the true spirit of Oriental poetry; the melancholy, which, like the ghost of a dead age, broods over that oldest of lands; the passion flushing under their tropical sun; their wealth of imagery. Lalla Rookh reads like a translation from the original Persian. The wonder is that he has never been self-tempted to visit the 'Vale of Cashmere' in person."

"Campbell, too, having immortalized Wyoming, will not cross the ocean to behold it," said Ida.

There was a consultation between the confederates, and Pemberton crossed to Ida's chair, with a smirk that belied the fire in his eye.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dermott,—Miss Ida, I am commissioned to inquire of you the authorship and meaning of this quotation—

'Deeply, darkly, desperately blue!'"

It is impossible to convey a just impression of the offensive tone and emphasis with which this impertinence was uttered. The quick-witted Irishman saw through the design in an instant. "It is from a Scotch author," said he, before Ida could reply, "and the rhyme runs after this fashion—

'Feckless, fairlie, farcically fou!'"

and not deigning a second glance at the questioner, he continued his account of a visit he had paid to Moore. The object of this merciless retort stood for a second, in doubt as to its meaning, and then walked off, still in incertitude. Ida's laugh, while it might have been in response to Mr. Dermott's story assured Josephine that her end was unaccomplished, before her messenger had delivered his lame return.

"She understood me, and it cut pretty deeply, but that puppy of a paddy answered for her. He repeated the next line, too, 'from a Scotch author,' he said, but I believe he made it up."

"What was it?" asked Josephine.

"'Fairly, farcically fou,' or something like that. If I were sure that last word meant fool, I would knock him down. Do you understand Scotch?"

"No," replied Josephine, vexed, but afraid to excite him further. "He is beneath the notice of a gentleman; we can let him alone."

But Ida's share in this was not to be overlooked. Josephine appeared as usual at breakfast: talkative to her father, and taciturn to her female companion. At length she inquired, meaningly, "by the way, Ida, when does your travelled Hibernian 'lave this counthry?'"

"If you speak of Mr. Dermott, I do not know."

"Is it not remarkable," said Josephine to her parent, "that polish and purify as you may, you cannot cure an Irishman of vulgarity? Irish he is, and Irish he will remain to the end of the chapter."

"Dermott behaves very decently, does he not? His letters of recommendation—introduction, I would say, describe him as a pattern gentleman."

Josephine lifted her brows. "It is a misfortune to be fastidious; my education has rendered me so. I cannot tolerate slang or abuse, especially when directed at a superior in politeness, if not in assurance."

"What now?" demanded Mr. Read, impatiently; and Ida, unable to hear more in silence, started up from the table.

"Wait, if you please," said Josephine, with that metallic glitter of her grey eyes. "I wish you to repeat your friend's reply to Mr. Pemberton, when he was the bearer of a civil message from me."

"I heard no message of that description," retorted Ida, unmoved.

"He did not repeat a line of poetry, and ask the author's name, I presume?"

"He did."

"And you furnished the required information?"

"I did not."

"Mr. Dermott did, then. What was his answer?"

"I do not choose to tell. I am not in the habit of playing spy and informer."

"Then I shall repeat it. I am not in the habit of winking at impudence or transgressions of the most common laws of society. What do you say, sir, of a man who, in the presence of ladies, calls another a 'farcical fool?'"

"That he is a foreign jackanape. He never darkens my door again. You heard this?" to Ida.

"I did not, sir, but Mr. Pemberton displays such penetration in discovering, and taste in fitting on caps that could suit no one else so well, I am not inclined to contest his title to this latest style."

"I do not wonder at your defence of your erudite suitor," said Josephine, laying a disagreeable stress upon the adjective. "If he were to single me out in every company, as the one being capable of appreciating him, I, too, should be blinded by the distinction attendant upon my notoriety. But as His Highness never gives token, by word or deed, of his consciousness of the existence of so unpretending a personage, I may be pardoned my impartial observation and judgment. I do not expect you to forbid his visits, sir, but I wish it understood that I am not at home when he calls."

"And that you reject his attentions?" asked Ida, dryly.

Josephine did not like her smile, yet saw no danger in replying—"assuredly!"

"It is a pity," was the rejoinder, "that your resolution was not postponed until Tuesday."

"And why?" said Mr. Read.

"Mr. Dermott informed me last night that he had secured three tickets for the concert of Monday evening, and requested permission to call for Josephine and myself. I told him that she had expressed anxiety to attend, and that I was disengaged. She was not in the parlor when he left, and he entrusted the invitation to me. He will be here this forenoon for her answer. As things now stand, his visit will be extremely mal-apropos. I shall decline for myself; she can do the same."

Josephine prudently lowered her eye-lids, but her lips were white with rage. She had especial reasons for desiring to go to this concert. Every body was running mad after the principal performer:—absence from necessity would be a pitiable infliction;—to stay away from choice, irrefragable proof of want of taste. To be escorted thither by Mr. Dermott, would give her an éclat the devotion of a score of Pembertons could not produce. In seeking to mortify another, she had pulled down this heavy chagrin upon her own head,—common fate of those who would make the hearts and backs of their fellows the rounds of their ladder to revenge or to fame.

Even Mr. Read was momentarily disconcerted. "I will procure you a ticket," he said, consolingly.

That tongue was used to falsehood, yet it did not move as glibly as was its wont, as she replied, "I do not care to go, sir."

"That is fortunate," said Ida, "as every seat was taken yesterday. You do not object to my withdrawing now?"

The shot had gone home; her enmity was gratified; she had not been anxious to attend from the first, and therefore was not disappointed; she did not suffer from pained sensibility; the frequency of these encounters had inured her to ambushed attack; she was fast becoming a match for them in stoicism, and surpassed them in satire; in this skirmish she had borne flying colours from the field; but had the contrary of all these things been true, she could not have been more wretched. She hated, as spirits like hers only can hate, her cold-hearted persecutors, and exulted in their defeat; yet close upon triumph came a twinge of remorse and a sense of debasement.

"I am sinking to their level! I could compete with them upon no other ground. They are despicable in their worldliness and malice; shall I grovel and hiss with them? It seems inevitable—debarred as I am from all associations which can elevate and clear my mind. Oh! the low envy in that girl's face as she named my 'suitor!' Destitute of mental wants herself, she thinks of nothing but courtship and a settlement! But this matter must be arranged."

She opened her writing-desk. Her chamber was her retreat and sanctum, and she had lavished much taste and time in fitting it up. All its appurtenances spoke of genius and refinement. With a poetic love for warm colors and striking contrasts, crimson and black relieved, each the other, in her carpet and curtains. The bedstead, seats and tables, fashioned into elegant and uncommon forms by her orders, were draped and cushioned with the same Tyrian hue. Books and portfolios were heaped and strewed upon the shelves and stands; and in one corner, upon a wrought bronze tripod, was an exquisite statuette—a girl kneeling beside an empty cage, the lifeless songster stark and cold in her hand. Several of Ida's schoolmates were with her when she purchased it from an itinerant Italian. They saw in the expression of hopeless sadness, only regret for her bird. Ida noted that her gaze was not upon its ruffled plumes, but to its silent home; and that one hand lay upon her heart. Looking more narrowly she discerned upon the pedestal the simple exclamation, "Et mon coeur!"

Henceforward it had become her Lares. She had scattered flowers over it, kissed it weepingly, and with lips rigid in stern despair, laid her hot brow to the white forehead of the voiceless mourner. She must have something to love, and the insensate image was dear, because it told of a grief such as hers. Now, after she dipped her pen in the standish, she paused to contemplate it,—the red light bathing it in a life-like glow,—and the blood receded from her face, as she uttered aloud its touching complaint, "Et mon coeur!"

Writing a note to Mr. Dermott, in which; without stating her reasons, she declined his offer, she dispatched it by one of her own servants, lately promoted to the office of Abigail, and attired herself for a walk. It was Saturday, and the weather faultless. A sigh of relief escaped her when she was in the outer air—she was free for a while. The streets were densely peopled—dashing ladies, and marble-playing urchins, glorying in the holiday; bustling, pushing men, and lazy nurses lugging fat babies; and through the incongruous crowd the pale thinker threaded her way, jostling and jostled, wrapped in herself, as they thought but of their individual personality, with this difference—they seemed happy in their selfishness; she was miserable in her isolation. She did not see that Pemberton passed her with a stiff bow, which, in punishment for her non-recognition, he resolved should be exchanged for a decided "cut" at their next meeting; did not catch Mr. Purcell's eye, as forgetting her rebuff in his pleasure at espying one, who could rightly value the prize he had discovered in an antiquated volume, musty with age, he beckoned to her from the door of the bookstore; did not hear Emma Glenn's modest "Good morning, Miss Ida," although she liked the child, and would have loved her if she had dared. She turned from the busy thoroughfare into an unfrequented street, keeping the same rapid pace; the mind was working, the body must be moving too—on, still on, with unflagging speed—'till she found herself upon the summit of the hill overlooking the lower part of the city, and near the old church-yard. She stopped, and looked in. A flight of steps led up to the burying-ground, several feet above the level of the walk. What tempted her to ascend? She had been there before, and was not interested—yet the irresolution ended in her entrance. It was very still in that Acropolis of the dead: the long grass, yellow in the October sun, waved without rustling; the sere leaves drifted silently to the ground; from the mass of buildings below her arose only a measured beat rather than hum—as regular, and not louder, than the "muffled drum" within her bosom. The warring elements of discord sank into a troubled rest, but their conflict was easier to be borne than the reaction that succeeded.

"Free among the dead;" forgotten as they, she sat upon a broken tombstone, in the shadow of the venerable church, with sorrowful eyes which looked beyond the city, the river, and the undulating low-grounds skirting its banks.

She had said to herself an hundred times, "I cannot be happy; it is folly to hope." But this morning she felt she had never until now relinquished hope; that despair, for the first time, stalked through the deserted halls of her heart, and the dreaded echo "alone" answered his footsteps.

It is easy to give up the world, with its million sources of delight, to share the adverse fortunes of one dearer than all its painted show; it is sweet to bid adieu to its frivolities, for the hope of another and a "better," but

"When the draught so fair to see
Turns to hot poison on the lip;"

when the duped soul cries out against the fair pretence that promised so much and gave so little, when it will none of it, and puts it by with loathing disgust;—yet resorts to nothing more real and pure;—what art can balm a woe like this?

A click of the gate-latch, and voices warned her that her solitude was about to be invaded. "I will wait here half an hour," said familiar tones. "Thank you," was the reply; "you need not stay longer; if she is at home I shall spend the day." "Very well; good bye," and Carry Carleton ran up the steps. Retreat was impossible, for their eyes met at once, and to the new visitor the meeting appeared to give satisfaction.

"I am, indeed, fortunate," said she, saluting Ida, and taking a place beside her, "I expected to pass a solitary half-hour. One of the girls came with me to the gate. She has gone to see her aunt, and may not return to-day. This is a favorite spot of mine. I am laughed at for the choice, yet it seems I am not as singular as they would have me believe. Do you come here often?"

"This is only my second visit."

"Indeed! But it is a long walk from your house. I live nearer, although on the other hill."

"I understood you were from the country," said Ida.

"So I am—but my sister resides here, and hers is another home to me. I love the country, yet I like Richmond. It is a beautiful city," she continued, her glance roving over the landscape.

"Outwardly—yes."

"You do not think the inhabitants adapted to their abode, then?"

"I do not know that they are worse than the rest of mankind. It is a matter of astonishment to me, that this globe should have been set apart as the theatre for so depraved a race."

"I don't know," said Carry, cheerily. "I find it a nice world—the best I am acquainted with; and the people harmless, good creatures—some dearer to me than others; but I entertain a fraternal affection for all."

"I have read of philanthropists," said Ida; "but you are the sole specimen I have seen. And this universal love—is it content to exist without a reciprocation?"

"The heart would be soon emptied were this so," returned the other, her bright face becoming serious. "There are many who love me; if any dislike, I am in blissful ignorance of the sentiment and its cause."

"But if your friends were removed, and replaced by enemies?"

"I would teach them friendship. My affection for the dead would make me more desirous to benefit the living."

"And if they would not be conciliated—if upon the broad earth you had not an answering spirit?"

"I should die!"

"How then do I live?" nearly burst from Ida's heart, but she smothered it, and replied, "It is easier to speak of death than to brave it."

"Death! did I say death?" exclaimed Carry. "I saw life as it would be were I bereft of father, sister, friends—and I said truly that it would not be worth the keeping—but death! I would not rush on that! I have such a horror of the winding-sheet and the worm!" She shivered.

"Yet you like to be here?"

"Yes. This is a sunny, cheerful place, with no fresh graves to remind one that the work of destruction is still going on. I love life. Others may expose its deceits, and weep above its withered blooms; I see blue sky where they fancy clouds. It is the day—the time for action and enjoyment; who would hasten the coming of the night—impenetrable—dawnless!"

"'To die—and go—we know not where!'"

quoted Ida. "That line conveys all that I fear in death. There have been seasons when the uncertainty shrouding the abyss beyond alone prevented my courting its embrace. Were it eternal forgetfulness, how grateful would be its repose. Looking around me here, I think of calm sleepers under these stones, hands folded meekly upon bosoms that will never heave again; of aching heads and wearied spirits at rest forever."

"You are too young to covet this dreamless slumber," said Carry "With your talents and facilities you have a work to do in this world."

"What can I do? and for whom?"

"Why—for every body."

"Too wide a scope—define. For example, what are my school-duties, setting aside my studies?"

"We can help each other," was the modest rejoinder. "We can impart pleasure, and avoid giving pain. Not a day passes in which we cannot add a drop of sweet to the appointed draught of some one of our fellow-creatures."

"Apropos to honey—it suggests its opposite, gall, and our ei-devant professor. I have not thanked you for your generous interference in my behalf, on the day of our fracas," said Ida, with an ease and cordiality that surprised herself.

"You magnify the favor. I spoke the truth. To withhold it would have been dishonesty."

"Dishonesty!"

"Your character for veracity was assailed. I had the proof which would establish it. I should have felt like a receiver of stolen goods had I concealed it."

"Moreover, to your philanthropy, I was not an individual, but the impersonation of the sisterhood;" said Ida, jestingly.

"Perhaps so," returned Carry, in a like strain. "You remember the 'Young Ladies' Female meeting.'"

"That was a piece of Ellen Morris' grandiloquence. Do you know, I envy that girl her faculty of creating mirth wherever she goes!"

"I had rather be Emma Glenn," said Carry. "One is witty, the other affectionate, and they will receive respectively admiration and love."

"I do not quite agree with you. Ellen's high spirits will carry her through many a sharp battle, from which Emma's sensitive nature would never recover. To combat with the world one should have no heart; and I heard a clergyman once say that a woman had no use for sense."

Carry laughed. "Between you, you would represent us as a superfluous creation. Yet woman has her sphere, no less than man; and if he conquers in his by might of purpose and brute strength, she guides, instead of rules in hers, by love and submission. As for the world, that semi-fabulous ogre, supposed to live somewhere, all out of doors, whose cold charities are proverbial; who eats up widow's houses, and grinds the poor; we have no dealings with it. It is, to my notion, an innocent bugbear, kept by the men, to prevent us from meddling in their business matters; and to melt flinty-hearted wives into pity for one, who has been fighting this monster all day, and has now to drink smoked tea, and eat burnt toast for supper."

"Are you ever sad?" questioned Ida.

"Not often, why do you ask?"

"You appear so light-hearted. I was at a loss to determine whether it was natural or feigned."

"My spirits are good, chiefly from habit, I believe. My father is remarkably cheerful. It is a maxim of his, that we are unjust, when we cause others to do penance for our humors; they have trouble enough of their own to bear. Controlling the manifestations of temper and discontent, is generally followed by the suppression of the feelings themselves. It has been so with me."

"See that burlesque of life!" said Ida, pointing. "Children turning somersets upon a tomb-stone!"

The tomb was built with four brick walls, supporting a horizontal tablet; and upon this flat surface, the irreverent youngsters were gambolling. One, the most agile, and the leader of the troop, was, as she spoke, in the act of performing a vehemently encored feat, viz.: throwing two somersets upon the marble, another in transitu for the ground, and a fourth, after landing upon the turf. Two were accomplished in safety, the third was a flying leap, and he did not move afterwards. The children screamed, and the girls ran to the spot. In falling, he had struck his head against a stone, and was senseless, the blood gushing from a wound in, or near the temple. Carry rested his head upon her arm, and with nervous haste, unbuttoned his collar. "Where are his parents?" inquired Ida. But they only cried the louder. "I fear he is killed!" said Carry. Ida shook her purse at the terrified group. "Who will bring me a doctor,—who, his mother?" Her collected manner tended to quiet them, as much as the clink of coin. Half-a-dozen scampered in as many directions, and she ordered the rest off, without ceremony. There was no rebellion. Each had a misgiving that he was to blame for the casualty, and they were glad to skulk away.

The handkerchief which Carry held to the gash, was saturated, and Ida supplied hers. He showed no sign of life, except that Ida imagined that she detected a feeble fluttering of the heart. Carry wept as though her heart would break. "Poor little fellow!" she exclaimed repeatedly. Ida did not shed a tear, but her compressed lips and contracted brow said this did not proceed from insensibility. "I cannot bear this suspense," she said. "I will look for a doctor myself, if you are not afraid to stay here alone."

"No, go!"

She met the medical man at the gate. It was Mr. Read's family physician, who chanced to be in the neighborhood. "Oh, Dr. Ballard!" exclaimed Ida. "I am rejoiced to see you!"

"And I am always happy to meet Miss Ross—but what is this about a boy killed? None of your friends, I hope."

Ida explained, as she led him to the scene of the disaster. It seemed ill-timed to the agitated girls, to see him touch his hat, with grave courtesy, to Carry, as he stooped to make an examination. "He is not dead," he said, feeling the pulse and heart; "but it came near being an awkward hurt. Miss Ross, I will trouble you to call one of those boys, and send him for my servant, who is in the street with my carriage. If I only had some soft linen!" looking around. Ida took an embroidered scarf from her neck. He tore it into strips, rolled them into a ball, and bound it tightly upon the cut. "Where does he live?" he asked.

The information was furnished by the boy's mother, who hurried up at this instant. She, with her reviving son, were put into the carriage, and the doctor stepped in after them.

The girls had no inclination to linger in the church-yard. The conversation, during their walk, ran upon the accident; but as they parted at the corner of the streets diverging to their separate abodes, Carry expressed a strong desire for the continuation of the acquaintance. "We have had an odd talk this morning;" said she smiling; "I would not have you regard it as a fair sample of my conversational powers."

Ida walked homeward with a lightened spirit. "Odd" as was their talk, and alarming as was the incident which interrupted it, she was better for both. There was a charm in Carry's frankness, which beguiled her confidence, and her cheerful philosophy was a pleasant, if not a prudent rule, for making one's way in life. She dwelt upon her declaration, that each day brought its opportunities for benevolent deeds; and her conscience responded joyfully to the appeal, "Have I contributed my drop of sweet to-day?" by pointing to her exertions for the relief of the unknown sufferer. Carry had praised her presence of mind, and the doctor complimented her warmly. "If I have not given pleasure, I have mitigated pain."

The struck chord ceased to vibrate as she reached the house where she had suffered and learned so much. When she came down to dinner, she was impassive and distant. Mr. Read vouchsafed to inquire if she had seen Mr. Dermott. She replied in the negative.

"I thought there was an arrangement to that effect;" said he, sneeringly.

"I addressed a note to him which made his call unnecessary."

"I do not presume to meddle with your correspondence, Miss Ross;" with "immense" stiffness; "but I trust neither my name, or that of my daughter was contained in that communication."

"I am responsible for my actions, sir; it is certain I never thought of referring them to your influence. I suppose Mr. Dermott is satisfied,—I am."

---

[CHAPTER V.]

Mr. Purcell, himself an able connoisseur and liberal patron of the fine arts, never suffered a suitable occasion to pass, without endeavoring to implant, and cultivate like tastes in his pupils. No "Exhibition" or Collection was recommended unadvisedly. He justly considered a relish for a vicious or false style, worse than none. So well was this known, that the girls were equally eager to examine what he esteemed worthy of their inspection, and to avoid that which he condemned. An artist visited the city, and advertised a set of "choice paintings, on exhibition for a few days." They were much talked of, and the scholars impatiently listened for the verdict of their principal. There were many smiling faces, when he announced, that he accepted, with pleasure, the polite invitation of the artist to himself and the members of his school. "The pictures were the work of a master hand;—he recommended them to their careful study." That afternoon, the studio was full. Some went from curiosity; some to be in the fashion; comparatively a small number through genuine love for the art. Among the latter class was Ida Ross. Bestowing little notice upon her acquaintances present, she passed around the room, intent upon the object which had drawn her thither. She was not disturbed; her reserve repelled, and her intellectual superiority awed; she knew—and they knew that though with, she was not of them; as an institution, they were proud of her; as individuals, with a very few exceptions, they disliked and envied her.

The proprietor, or a gentleman, supposed to be he, was at a desk, writing. He must have possessed the power of abstraction in an extraordinary degree; for the chattering about him resembled the confabulations of a flock of magpies, more than the conversation of decorous young ladies. Groups came and departed; and Ida did not mark the changes, until, diverted from the contemplation of a splendid landscape by the sound of her own name,—she perceived a group near by, composed of four or five girls and as many young men, none of them her well-wishers or admirers;—their attention divided between herself, and a sketch of St. John's church. Josephine was the magnet of the circle, and behind her, was the smirking Pemberton. A single glance took in all this, and features and expression were immobile as before. It was Josephine's voice she had heard;—its tones higher than usual. She neither desired, nor affected concealment.

"As I was saying, the church-yard has been converted into a gymnasium. The cry is no longer, 'Liberty or Death!'—but 'Leap Frog or die!'"

A general cachinnation applauded this felicitous hit.

"On Saturday last"—continued the narrator—"the unrivalled troupe were in the midst of one of their most elaborate performances, encouraged by the presence—I am not sure, but assisted by a select company of spectators. I need only specify Miss Ross and friend, name unknown—to assure you of the high respectability of the assemblage. Smiled upon by beauty, and animated to superhuman exertions by soft glances from one, perchance too dear to his youthful heart,—the chief of the band threw his whole soul into his lofty undertaking, and alas! his body, also! He arose, like the Phoenix, from the ashes below, but to seek the earth again, having fallen from the frightful height of three feet. He lay upon the sod without sense or motion. The spectators pressed around,—but, breaking through the throng, came the fair nymphs aforesaid. One pillowed his head upon her arm, and drenched his dusty brow with tears; her comrade wrung her hands, and shrieked for 'help! lest he die!' The crowd, at a respectful distance, looked on; venturing a whisper, now and then, to the purport that 'it was as good as a play, and cost nothing.' Warm brine and sounding air are poor medicines for a cracked skull; and the sufferer remaining insensible, a frantic damsel was seen, vaulting over tomb-stones, bonnetless and shawlless, on the most direct route to the gate. A gallant man of healing was passing, and him she conducted to the prostrate hero. Handkerchiefs and scarfs were stripped from necks and arms to staunch the trickling gore; and supported by his affectionate nurses, the interesting youth gained his carriage. Miss Ross returned home with swollen eyes and downcast air. The afternoon, evening, and most of the next day were spent in retirement. This was a grief sympathy could not assuage."

"Did she tell you of it?" asked one.

"No. Madam Rumor is my informant, and her story is vouched for by a gentleman, an eye witness of the catastrophe."

In this lamentable caricature, there was so little truth, and so much less wit, that it should have been beneath the contempt of her, at whom it was aimed; but the ridicule was public. Her bonnet hid her face, but the angry blood surged over her neck in crimson streams. There was vengeful fury enough in the grasp, which drove the nails through the paper she held, into the palm, to have swept the tittering clique from the earth at a stroke. Whatever purpose of retaliation sprang into life, it was nipped in the bud. The desk of the supposed artist was in a niche; and the projecting wall concealed it from the view of the party. He was almost in front of her; and her burning eyes were arrested as they encountered his. There was no scorn, or none for her, in that regard; but warning, interest and inquiry were blended with such earnestness, that, like the charmed bird, he could not move or look away. Even when he cast his eyes upon his work again, she did not, at once, withdraw hers. He might have been thirty; was pale, and not handsome, yet anything but ordinary in his appearance. If his countenance had betrayed emotion the previous moment, it vanished as his pen began to move. He was the automaton scribe, and the subdued Ida, drawing her shawl around her, quitted the place, without exchanging a syllable with any one.

The spell of the silent rebuke was speedily dissolved, yet she was grateful that it had restrained her hasty retort. The heated in a quarrel, are always the defeated. Morbid sensibility is the engenderer of suspicion,—and vice versa; the two act and react, until a smile, a look, is the foundation of weeks—it may be, of years of wretchedness. To such a mind, ridicule is a venomed dart, piercing and poisoning, and pride but inflames the wound. Dr. Ballard had showed the courtesy of a gentleman, and the kindness of a friend in his intercourse with Ida. Unconsciously, she had come to like, almost to trust him—and this was at an end. He, and he, only, could have provided the outline of the narrative she had heard. She set her teeth hard, as she recalled her agitated greeting at the gate; and his composure; her subsequent offers of assistance—"officious"—she called them now,—and his calm acceptance. But it was base and unmanly, to make capital for sport of the weakness of a woman—a child, compared with himself! "They are all alike—I must believe it! with hearts rotten to the core! Heaven have mercy on me, until I am as callous as they!" And when he called, at some personal inconvenience, to impart the intelligence of her "protegé's" recovery, she met him with a haughtiness that surprised and angered him; and his futile attempt to throw down the barrier, resulted in his cutting short the interview. He had told Mr. Read of Ida's adventure; but not in the spirit in which its events were coarsely retailed. He lauded her kindness and self-possession, in terms too extravagant to suit the zero humanity of her guardian's narrow soul;—as he wound up the story to his daughter—he "was not a man to get up a fit of heroics, and had no idea that Ballard had so much palaver about him."

If his vile doctrine were indeed true, if all men were alike, and like him, who of us would not unite in the orphan's prayer—would not cry, with her, in despairing bitterness, "Heaven have mercy upon us, until we are as callous as they!"

She had no mercy upon herself. There was an unholy joy in ruthlessly trampling upon the few flowers that grew in her path: the ebullition of a desperate despair, as when one is tortured by a raging tooth, he probes, and grinds and shakes the offending member, self-inflicting yet more exquisite pain, but bearing it better, under the insane impression that he is wreaking revenge upon its cause; saying, with the poor Dutchman, "ache on! ache on! I can stand it as long as you can!" And "ache on! ache on!" said Ida to her heart, "the nerve will be dead by and by!"

We consign to the lower pit of darkness the bloody demons, cloaked in priestly stole, and "speaking great, swelling words of wisdom" and peace, who tore limb from limb upon the rack, in "zeal for the Faith!" but for him who pours out his atheistical misanthropy,—deadening, petrifying the soul, and blinding the eyes, until in this, our lovely earth, they see but a mighty charnel-house, full of nameless abominations; who traduces God, in despising His noblest work, and says: "Behold the Truth!" the murderer of the heart,—what shall be his portion!

Carry Carleton's liking for the company of "that proud, disagreeable girl," and her defence of her when attacked, was a nine days' wonder. True, "she loved everybody," but here she manifested partiality, far more than accorded with her schoolmates' notions of justice and reason. Carry was unwavering. "I like her," said she, one recess, when her corps of affectionate teazers hung on and about her. "It wounds me to hear you speak disparagingly of her. You must admit that she has redeeming traits. She is one of our best scholars, and if inaccessible, is upright and honorable, and will not stoop to do an ignoble action."

"Yes," said Emma Glenn, happy to add her mite of praise, "Don't you remember she found Julia Mason's composition behind a desk in the cloak room, and brought it in examination day, although she knew that she was her most dangerous competitor for the prize? I'm afraid I should have been tempted to keep it, or leave it where it was."

"I should not be afraid to trust you, dear," said Carry. "You are too ready to commend such conduct in others, to act a contrary part yourself. As for Ida—have any of you reflected how much of what you call her pride you are accountable for?"

"We! how!" was the unanimous exclamation.

"I know my misdeeds are legion, and my good works, like Parson Wilkins' text, 'way off and hard to find,' but 'evil,' indeed, as well as 'few, have been the years of my pilgrimage,' if I had anything to do with the 'formation of Ida Ross' character!" said Ellen Morris, clasping her hands deprecatingly.

"Ellen! Ellen!" remonstrated Carry, "think what effect a remark like that would produce! Would it increase her confidence in you or us? Would she not avoid us more then ever? She is an orphan, and should be dealt with more charitably, than if her feelings had expanded in a home like yours."

"You do not believe she could love anybody!" said one of the group.

"Certainly I do, and I mean she shall love me. You would make the same resolution, if you knew her as I do."

"An idea strikes me, Carry," said the incorrigible Ellen.—"She and we have affinity for each other—water and oil—you are the alkali, which is to reconcile us; we shall be a soap manufactory, to cleanse and regenerate the world."

"A little vinegar facilitates the process, does it not?" asked Carry, good-humoredly.

"You have come to a poor market for it, my good Alkali; upon second thoughts, you must leave me out of the combination altogether—salt, Attic, particularly, being detrimental to the integrity of the article in question."

"Soap boiling and Attica!" said Anna Talbot, who was reading a little apart, "your conversation takes an extended range to-day, young ladies."

"Both are warm places," returned Ellen. "Our imaginations needed thawing after perching so long upon the North Pole, id est, Ida Ross."

"You have offended Carry," said Emma, apprehensively, as the former walked towards the other room.

"Not offended, but grieved," she replied, with sweet gravity. "I should not love Ellen as I do, if I did not believe her heart to be oftener in the right place than her tongue."

She passed into the recitation room, and there, her head bent upon a desk, was Ida! Carry was transfixed with dismay. The door was a-jar—she had heard it all! But the relaxed limbs—the unmoving figure—was she then asleep? A minute's stay confirmed this opinion; and greatly relieved, she tripped lightly out by another door. Ida did not sleep. She had left the larger room at the close of morning recitations, seeking in the comparative quiet of this, some ease from a severe headache. She did not think of concealment. After the gossip of the thoughtless circle turned upon herself, she still supposed that her vicinity was known; that their pretended unconsciousness was a covering for a renewal of mortifications. To move would have been matter for triumph, she was not disposed to supply. So unjust does suspicion make us!

Carry's disinterested vindication electrified her. To risk the forfeiture of the favor of the many, for one who had never conferred an obligation—whose good will could profit her nothing! in her experience, the act lacked a parallel. "Can it be," she thought, with stirring pulses, "can it be that I may yet find a friend?" then, as Carry's "I am resolved she shall love me," reached her, she bowed in thankfulness. "I will trust! will stake my last hope of ever meeting a kindred spirit upon this throw—will let her love me if she will, so help me God!" It was no light vow.

Carry's intrusion was unobserved; she was only sensible of the incalescence of her frozen heart. The afternoon was cloudy, and her maid was surprised to see her mistress preparing for her promenade.

"Indeed, Miss Ida, you'll get caught in the shower; 'twont be no little sprinkle, neither. When its starts to rain this time o' year, it never holds up."

"Oh, well!" returned Ida, familiarly, "if we have another deluge, I may as well be out of doors as in. But give me my cloak, Rachel, I must have a short run before it sets in."

Josephine crossed the hall as she was going out. She stared, but made no remark upon her unseasonable excursion. It was less wonderful than the smile and nod she received. "It is pleasant," said Ida to herself, "yet they talked of rain!" But the storm was not to be delayed by inward sunshine. The smoky fog grew denser; through the ominous calm which pervaded the city, the roaring of the distant "Falls" was distinctly audible; cows stood, solemnly herded together, the vapor from their nostrils scarcely thicker than the surrounding atmosphere; and an occasional rain-drop trickling down their roughened hides. Then the pavement was spotted with the precursors of the prognosticated deluge, and a dash of spray into Ida's face restored her to the perception of her actual position: a mile from home, night and a tempest approaching. Ere a dozen steps were retraced, she was met by the shower,—November rain, cutting and numbing as hail. Her veil, flimsy defence for her face, was dripping in a moment, and the water streamed in miniature cascades from her bonnet and shoulders. Bewildered and dizzy, she sprang, without a thought, except the instinct of self-preservation, into the shelter of a friendly porch. She laughed, despite her uneasiness at her situation. "Wet, not quite to the skin, but more damp than is comfortable; sans umbrella, over-shoes, carriage or servant, and where, I cannot precisely determine."

"Walk in, do!" said a pleasant voice behind her. A lady was holding the open door. "I thank you," Ida began, when a figure glanced out of the entry. "Why, Ida! my dear creature! how wet you are! don't stand there a moment. I am so glad you ran in! This is my sister, Mrs. Dana—my friend, Miss Ross—now we will go directly up stairs, and take off your damp things!" and in the confusion of congratulations and regrets, Ida did not know where she was, until she was seated in Carry's room; both sisters occupied in divesting her of such portions of her apparel, as were likely, by their humidity, to endanger her health.

"You are very kind," she said; "but I cannot wait to have these dried. I must go home."

"Impossible!" cried the impulsive Carry. "I will not hear of it. Just make up your mind to stay in your present quarters until clear weather."

"Let me insist upon your staying, Miss Ross;" said Mrs. Dana. "I will send a messenger to your friends to inform them of your safety."

"She will stay," said Carry, looking very positive.

Ida yielded with secret pleasure. Her guardian angel must have guided her into this haven. Mrs. Dana was Carry's senior by ten years or more, and resembled her more in voice and manner, than feature. They had the same kind eyes and dimpling smile. Having seen her guest comfortable, she gave her into Carry's charge, and went to forward her message to Mr. Read. "How it rains!" said Carry, drawing aside the curtain. "It is lucky you came when you did. Did you know we lived here?"

"No, it was entirely accidental. I was walking, and did not notice the clouds until the shower came; then I took refuge in the nearest house."

"A happy accident for me," said Carry. "I despaired of ever persuading you to visit me. This storm was sent for my express benefit. Sister and I are never tired of each other's company; but the little ones demand much of her time; and brother John—Mr. Dana, often brings home writing, or is detained at the store late at night, in the busy season, and I am rather lonely."

"You are bent upon convincing me that all the obligation is on your side," returned Ida: "but compare the mermaid-like fright which shocked you, with the decent young lady before you now, and recollect that my gratitude is proportionate to the improvement."

A pretty little girl, about five years old, crept into the room.

"Come to aunt, Elle!" said Carry. "And speak to this lady."

The child came up timidly to Ida, and slid her plump hand into hers. She did not struggle, as she lifted her into her lap, but looked steadfastly at her with her soft black eyes. "What is your name?" asked Ida.

"Elinor Dana," she answered, in her clear, childish voice.

"Elinor!" repeated Ida, and the little one felt herself pressed more closely to her breast."

"Do you like it?" inquired Carry.

"It was my mother's name!" was the low reply. Elle put up her lips for a kiss. She saw a pained look flit over the countenance of the visitor, and administered the only panacea she possessed.

"Is she your sister's oldest child?" asked Ida, repaying the caress.

"Yes. She has two younger; a boy and a girl. The babe is my namesake."

"My brother is named Charles Arthur; after uncle Charley and uncle Arthur," ventured Elle.

"And you love him very dearly,—do you not?" said Ida.

"Yes ma'am; I love papa and mamma, and aunt Carry, and uncle Charley, and uncle Arthur, and grandpa, and sister and brother," said the child, running over the names with a volubility that showed how used she was to the repetition.

"Will you love me too?" asked Ida. The anxiety with which she awaited the reply will not be sneered at by those who have been, like her, starvelings in affection.

"Yes, you too, but I don't know what to call you."

"My name is Ida."

"Miss Ida, or cousin Ida?"

"Cousin!" exclaimed Ida, catching at the word. "Call me cousin!"

"Elle claims as relatives, all whom she loves," observed Carry; "and we encourage her in the practice. Miss is formal; and the absence of any such prefix gives a disrespectful air to a child's address."

"She speaks of her uncles. Have you brothers?"

"She alludes to Mr. Dana's brothers," said Carry, with a slight blush, which Ida remembered afterwards. "They were wards of my father's; and we regard them as a part of the family."

Ida amused herself by coaxing forth Elle's prattle; and related, as reward for her sociability, a marvellous fairy tale, which expanded her eyes to their utmost circle, and interested even Carry. Mrs. Dana entered at the finale.

"Papa has come, Elle, and would be happy to see Miss Ross. Tea is ready, too. I hope she has not annoyed you,"—to Ida.

"Annoyed! oh no, ma'am! we are good friends, and have had a nice talk, have we not, darling?"

Playing with a child is a very puerile amusement—what room is there for the exercise of the reasoning faculties; what opportunity for gaining new views of the world or of truth? Still Ida was happier, and she was silly enough to think, wiser. A germ was set, which should be developed by and by.

Mr. Dana was in the supper-room. He was tall and dark, grave-looking when silent; but as he acknowledged the introduction to herself, and stooped to kiss Elle, his smile rendered him exceedingly handsome. The proud tenderness of his wife was beautiful to behold; and he unbent all that was stern in his nature, in her presence, or Carry's. The repast went off delightfully. There were no sarcastic flings at society and individuals, and clash of combat, imperfectly drowned by courteous phraseology, such as characterized similar occasions at Mr. Read's. Free to act and speak, without dread of criticism, Ida acquitted herself well. She and her entertainers were equally charmed; and Carry sat by, contented with the success of her benevolent efforts. Mr. Dana's business required his attention immediately after supper; Mrs. Dana sat with the girls awhile, then repaired to her nursery. "We shall not be troubled by visitors to-night," said Carry. "What say you to adjourning to our chamber? It is more snug than these empty parlors."

They visited the nursery in their way. Elle opened her eyes as her friend kissed her coral lips, but their lids fell again directly, and her "good night" died in a drowsy murmur. The boy was sleeping soundly, and little Carry lay quietly wakeful upon her mother's lap. "These are my treasures," said the fond parent, smiling at Ida's admiration of the group.

"Treasures she would not barter for the wealth of both Indies," added Carry. "You are a diplomatist, Ida, you have found sister's blind side by praising her pets."

"You, who are so accustomed to these pretty playthings, do not know how lovely they are to one who is not so favored," replied Ida.

"Ah! there you are in error. No one can love the sweet angels as I do, except the mother who bore them. Now," continued she, when they were in their room, taking from a wardrobe two dressing-gowns, "I move that we don these, and make ourselves comfortable generally."

And cozily comfortable they appeared, ensconced in armchairs, in front of that most sparkling of coal-fires; a waiter of apples and nuts sent up by thoughtful Mrs. Dana, on a stand between them; shutters and curtains closed, and the storm roaring and driving without.

"I no longer wonder at your cheerfulness, since I have seen your home," said Ida. "All the good things of life are mingled in your cup."

"You are right. I am very happy, but not more so than hundreds of others. My contentment would be grievously marred, if I suspected this was not so."

"Fraternizing again. I have reflected and observed much since our talk in the cemetery, and am almost persuaded that you have chosen the easiest method of living; that 'where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' Your system has brought most pleasure thus far, whether it will endure the test of time and experience, is another question."

"You alarm me," answered Carry. "Your vague hints excite my curiosity, yet do not indicate the description of dangers I am to encounter. Let us understand each other—as the Methodist class-leaders have it, 'tell our experiences.'"

"Mine may be briefly summed up," said Ida, sadly.

'The frigid and unfeeling thrive the best;
And a warm heart in this cold world, is like
A beacon light;—waiting its feeble light
Upon the wintry deep, that feels it not—
Trembling with each pitiless blast that blows,
'Till its faint fire is spent.'"

"You have known this?" asked Carry.

"In all its bitterness!"

"And the writer felt, or thought he felt the force of their meaning, when he penned the lines. Have you ever met with a warm heart besides your own?"

"Yes, one—the home of excellence and affection."

"Then, 'this cold world' has produced three, to whom its biting atmosphere was uncongenial—may there not be more? I look into my bosom, and discover there charity and good-will towards men; why should I deny the existence of like feelings in those who are partakers of the same nature, in all other respects?"

"Fair logic; but let us examine facts. Take an example so frequently cited, as to appear hacknied, yet none the less true to nature. Your wealth, or situation, or influence enables you to benefit those who style themselves your friends. You are courted, beloved, popular. A change in these adventitious circumstances alters everything. With unabated desires for love or distinction, you are a clod of the earth, a cumberer of the ground. The stream of adulation flows in another direction; former acquaintances pass you with averted eyes, or chilling recognitions; you are sought by no new ones. Men do not go to a barren tree, or a dried fountain. You shake your head;—this is not a fancy sketch. Listen to a leaf from my history. Until two years ago I never received a harsh word, or an unloving look. My mother was the benefactress of the poor, for miles around, and I was her almoner. Blessings and smiles hailed me wherever I went. I had no conception of sorrows she could not alleviate; and I remember thinking—foolish child that I was! that her empire of hearts was worth the glory of an Alexander or Napoleon. She died! and where are the fruits of her loving kindness? If her memory lives in another breast than that of her only child, I do not know it!"

There were tears in Carry's eyes, already, and the slight tremor of her speech was grateful music to the orphan's ear.

"You quitted your home, and all who knew her, and came to a strange city, where it was necessary for you to earn love as she had done. I have no doubt, nay, I am sure, that by the creatures of her bounty, her memory is preserved as a holy thing; and that they are ready to extend the affection they had for her, to her child. Here, she was comparatively unknown. To carry out your metaphor of the tree, the graft cut from the parent stock must bear fruit for itself. I know the world is generally selfish, but I am convinced that our reprobation of it often arises from the growth of a similar weakness in ourselves. May it not be that the dearth of love, so painfully felt by you, proceeds in part, from the ignorance of your associates as to the real state of your mind, or from an exacting spirit in yourself! Pardon my freedom; it is meant in kindness."

"I thank you for your candor. The truth, if unpalatable, cannot offend."

"Then, trusting to your forbearance, I will go more into particulars. To curry favor, in school, or elsewhere, is as repugnant to me as to you; but do we sacrifice self-respect, by swaying to the popular voice, when no abandonment of principle is required? or play the hypocrite, in concealing prejudices and humors that conflict with the sentiments of others; in uniting, with apparent willingness, in the common cause? We cannot like—we may help all. I say it in humility—there is one rule by which I do not fear to be judged: 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.'"

"I understand your allusions. You think my reserve proceeds from pride alone. What if I were to tell you"—and her voice sank, "that haughty as I seem, I would cringe—lie in the dust—to the most inferior of my daily companions, if she would give me love. Believe me, it is this unquenchable thirst—this longing for what is unattainable by me, which has forced me to court its opposite—hate! I will not lay my heart bare to those who would spurn it. It is said, the hind seeks an obscure covert, to die from the wound for which his unhurt comrades would shun him. You cannot know—it would be improper for me to recount my fruitless endeavors to win the coveted blessing, at any price, even the loss of the self-respect you imagine I value so highly. It is enough that experiences, such as I hope may never be yours, have taught me to entrench myself in my fortress of self-confidence, from whence I hurl disdain upon besieging powers. I am thought independent; the world has made me so. No woman is independent from nature or choice."

Carry looked musingly in the fire. "I am not certain," she said, "that I have a right to repeat what was told me, by one who never thought that you would hear it. I do not see, how ever, that it can do harm, and I wish to show you, that I am not ignorant of some of your trials. A friend of mine, whose name I am not at liberty to mention, was in F——'s painting-rooms on the afternoon of your visit. The artist was an acquaintance, and having letters to write, he offered to occupy his desk while Mr. F—— should seek recreation. He was an auditor of Josephine's Read's garbled story of our church-yard adventure; he had heard a true statement from me. Had my name been used, as it would have been if she had known who your companion was, he would have spoken. As it was, his indignation nearly got the better of his prudence. He identified you as the heroine of the tale, by the significant gestures and winks of the ill-mannered party, and commended your equanimity and forbearance."

"He did not add, that his timely warning suppressed the responsive storm?" said Ida.

"Why! did he speak?"

"No. He only looked, but such a look!"

Carry laughed. "He is a strange mortal! But to return to yourself. These exhibitions of depravity and cold-heartedness, are not adapted to raise our estimate of mankind; yet even then, there was one present, who was on the side of right and humanity; who saw no cause for mirth in the sufferings of a child, or the anxieties of two inexperienced girls."

"Dr. Ballard did, it seems," said Ida, the gloomy look returning.

"Did Josephine hear of the affair from him?"

"I suppose so. Who else knew it?"

"True. But is it not more probable that she gave it her own coloring, than that he made a jest of us? We will lean towards mercy in our judgment."

"You are a veritable alchemist," said Ida. "You would ferret out gold, even in the dross of my character."

"Try me!" replied Carry. "But bear in mind, nothing is to be secreted; no hard thoughts or jaundiced investigations. All must be cast into the crucible."

"And tried by what fire?" inquired Ida.

"Love!" said the warm-hearted girl, kneeling beside her, and winding her arms about her waist. "Love me, Ida! and if I prove heartless and deceitful, I will cease to plead for my brothers and sisters."

The glad tears that impearled her bright locks, replied.

---

[CHAPTER VI.]

"Teach me to gain hearts as you do!" Ida prayed, on the memorable evening of the storm, and Carry answered, blithely, "Love, and live for others!"

To her, natural disposition and practice made the task easy; for her pupil, it was arduous beyond her worst expectation. Her reputation was established; the wall she had erected between herself and her associates, was not to be undermined or scaled in a day. Her overtures of familiarity and service was unskilfully made; her very timidity construed into labored condescension. "It is a hopeless endeavor—they will never care for me!" said she, despondingly—once and again, and Carry still predicted—"Love will win love. Persevere!" The birth and growth of their attachment was remarkable. Dissimilar in mind; made more so in manner, by education and circumstances, there existed from the earliest stage of their friendship, perfect confidence in each other's affection. Carry had an infallible perception of genuine worth, hidden though it might be; and Ida clung drowningly to this last anchor—the sole tie that connected her with her race. Like most deep feelings, its current was noiseless. They were much together;—that was not strange, since their studies were the same. They had separate compartments of one desk; and none marked how often one book was conned by both; brown and fair curls mingling; and hands clasped in mute tenderness. Still less did they dream of the miraculous confluence of the sun-bright stream with the turbid torrent, and the wondrous music of their flow.

They were sitting thus one forenoon, when an assistant teacher drew near, and inquired if there were a vacant seat in their vicinity.

"A new scholar!" buzzed from fifty tongues; and the eyes of our two students strayed with the rest, to the door.

"Miss Pratt, young ladies!" introduced Mr. Purcell.

The girls arose, in conformance with their custom of reception, and bowed to the figure that followed him into the room. She was short and fat—"dumpy," in vulgar parlance; and so homely, as to countenance Ellen Morris' report to another department—"that the farmers in the neighborhood where she was 'riz,' had forwarded a petition, beseeching her to return, their corn having suffered greatly from the depredations of the crows since her departure; a thing unheard of, previously, in that part of the country." Her eyes were small and grey; her nose a ruddy "snub;" her lips curiously puckered up; and her skin might have owed its dappled red to the drippings of the carroty frizette overshadowing it. Her dress was showy and outré; a rainbow silk trebly-flounced; an embroidered lace cape; white kid gloves; a gold cable of startling dimensions; two bracelets of corresponding size, and different patterns; a brooch that matched neither, and out-glittered both; while blue, green, and red stones, with heavy settings, loaded the thick fingers to the knuckles.

Awe of their preceptor in some, good breeding in others, prevented any audible outbreak of amusement; but what school girl on the qui vive for diversion could keep from smiling? Mr. Purcell frowned as his eye travelled from one mirthful face to another, but a twinkle from Ellen Morris' dancing orbs neutralized the effort; and there was a perceptible twitch of his risible muscle as he rapped for "order." Ida and Carry had not escaped the contagion, an indulgence for which they reproached themselves.

"Poor girl!" whispered Carry. "She knows no better. She is to be pitied instead of laughed at." And Ida thought of her loneliness, upon her induction into these strange scenes. "I can lessen her discomfort, and, uninfluenced by prejudice, she will be thankful, perhaps will become fond of me."

Carry read her resolve in her thoughtful survey of the stranger; but while she loved and honoured her for it, her heart misgave her as she looked more attentively at the object of the purposed charity. Her physiognomy was not more irregular than unpleasant in its expression. She had opened a book, to be in the fashion in this as in every thing else, but her regards were wandering around the room in scared yet unblushing curiosity, flustered at being in a crowd, without a doubt as to her ability to cope with the best of them. Before the exercises of the forenoon were concluded, she was summoned to see a visitor, and did not reappear before intermission. Then Ida, having occasion to go into a small room, where bonnets and cloaks were hung, found her standing at the window, crying. She wheeled about sharply on hearing a step; her eyes swelled almost out of sight, and her whole appearance frightful in its disorder.

"What do you want?" she asked, querulously.

"I did not know you were here," said Ida. "What is the matter? Are you sick? Can I help you?"

"No. My pa's gone away!" A fresh burst.

"Gone! where?"

"Gone home! and I don't want to stay in this nasty, mean place. I don't want to go to school no more—nowhar!"

To hint at the obvious propriety of the deprecated measure was a temptation policy bade her resist, and Ida was actually nonplussed in casting about in her mind for appropriate consolation.

"You will like us better than you expect," she said, rather awkwardly; "and your father will come soon to see you again—will he not?"

"Yes; he's comin' next week. He is a representative!" mouthing the word magniloquently.

"A—what?"

"He belongs to the legislater. Lor! didn't you know that?"

"No," replied Ida, humbly; "I am so little conversant with State affairs. You will be glad to have him so near."

"I don't care much about it; I want to go home and stay with ma!" beginning to sob. Neither her unpolished manners, nor her accent, combining, as it did, the most vicious of Virginia provincialisms, with the gutturals of the African; nor her noisy grief, could make Ida forget that she was a home-sick child—weeping for her mother! She too had mourned, and "refused to be comforted, because hers was not." Miss Pratt's sorrow, however, was very garrulous.

"Now, at home," she continued, "I did jest as I pleased; I lay down most all day. Ma said reading was bad for my head; and so 'tis; it makes me as stupid as I don't know what; and ain't no use besides. I can play on the pianny; gentlemen don't care for nothing else when they go to see the ladies. You all don't have no beaux while you're at school, do you?"

Ida smiled at this unlooked for query. "We do not have much leisure for amusements," she rejoined.

"And can't you go to the theatre, and to shows and parties?" asked Miss Pratt, alarmed.

"There are no rules on the subject; but it is thought that a young lady is better fitted to go into society, when her mind and manners are formed by time and study."

"Mine are enough formed, I know," complacently glancing from her attire to Ida's plain merino, and black silk apron. "How awful ugly all the girls dress! Ain't none of 'em rich?"

"I believe so; but the school-girls here dress simply."

"I shan't! My pa's able to give me decent clothes, and I mean to have 'em. I don't like Richmond a single bit. Nobody don't take no more notice of me than if I wan't nobody—no better than other folks."

"You are not acquainted yet. There are some pleasant girls amongst us; and you will love Mr. Purcell."

"Is he strict, much? Does he make you get hard lessons?"

"He is very kind and considerate."

"I despise teachers and books. Thank patience! I am going to turn out after this session. Ma was married at fifteen, and I'm going on seventeen."

"I am quite seventeen, but I am not tired of books. When I leave school, I shall adopt a regular plan of study and reading."

"Good gracious! Why, don't you expect to get married? What are you going to learn so much for? I reckon you're going to teach school."

"No; I study because I like to do it."

"Pshaw! you talk like your teacher was in the room. I don't believe that."

"The school-bell!" interrupted Ida, happy to be released.

Miss Pratt hung back. "I don't want to go where all them girls are. Will Mr. What's-his-name be mad if I stay here?"

"He will probably send for you."

"Then I might's well go now. I don't care—I'm as good as any of 'em."

"What, and who is she?" inquired Carry, when school was out.

"A silly, neglected child," responded her friend. "Shamefully ignorant, when we consider her father's station. He is a member of the legislature."

"Ah! can it be the delegate from A——? I have heard of him. He is a clever politician, and an educated man. I am astonished!"

So were all who made the acquaintance of his daughter. Mr. Pratt had done his best to serve his country and increase his fortune. The rearing of his children was confided to a weak and foolishly fond mother. The only girl was alternately stuffed and dosed, until the modicum of intellectual strength nature might have granted her, was nearly destroyed; the arable soil exhausted by the rank weed growth. It was just after his election to the House of Representatives, that the father made simultaneously two astounding discoveries—that physically, his daughter was no longer a child, and that she was a dunce. He had paid a teacher to superintend her education, and supposed she had done her duty; whereas, the prudent governess, having little more sense than her pupil, and loving her ease fully as well, had enjoyed her sinecure of a situation with no compunctious visitings of conscience. She acted "according to Mrs. Pratt's instructions." It was a thunderbolt to the feminine trio when the Representative introduced a bill of amendment, paid the soi-disant instructress for the work she had not performed, informing her that her services were at an end; and ordered the mother to resign her spoiled child to him, "he would see what could be done towards redeeming the time." He carried his point in the teeth of a windy and watery tempest, and "Miss Celestia Pratt" was duly entered on the roll-book of Mr. Purcell's justly celebrated institution. She soon ceased to complain that she was not noticed. The second day of her attendance she fell in with Ellen Morris and her coterie. By the time the half hour's recess was over, they were enlightened as to her past life, and future aspirations, and supplied with the material of a year's fun-making; while she was reinstated in her self-consequence, and ready to strike hands with them in any scheme they chalked out.

"It is a shame," said Ida, who, with Carry kept aloof, silent spectators. "Cannot she see what they are doing?"

"It will be a severe, but perhaps a salutary lesson," replied Carry.

"But the poor creature will be the butt of the school."

"And of the community," said Carry. "I have reasoned with Ellen;—she is not evil disposed, but would compass sea and land for as rich a joke as this promises to be. My influence can effect nothing."

"What if I warn the girl?" said Ida. "Must she pay the penalty of her parent's fault?"

"My darling," returned Carry, affectionately, "I am learning prudence from you, and I verily believe I have imparted to you some of my inconsiderateness. What hold have you on this Miss Pratt's confidence? Ellen and her clique are as likely to be in the right as yourself. In her estimation they are more entitled to credence. They play upon the string of self—you will utter a distasteful truth. Let her and them alone, except so far as your individual self is concerned. Attract each one to you, and you may be the means of bringing them together."

Ellen Morris burst into the school-room one morning in a gale of excitement.

It was early, and none of the teachers were present, the girls were gathered in knots about the stove and desks.

"Oh girls!" she cried, "I hurried to get here before my angel Celestia. I have the best thing to tell you. You must know she and I were invited, with several others, to take tea at Uncle James' last evening. We had not been there long before aunt said that Mr. Dermott was expected. 'I have it,' thought I. I gave Celestia a nudge, 'Do you hear that?'

"'What?' said she.

"'The great traveller, Mr. Dermott, is to be here presently. Ain't you glad?'

"'Who is he? I never heard of him.'

"'Oh Celestia! and you a representative's daughter! and he invited expressly to meet you—it is well no one overheard you—and you have not composed your conversation either? What will you do? He is one of the famous authors you hear so much of. They will make a statue of him when he dies, like Washington in the capitol, you know.'

"'You don't say so!'

"'Yes, and he has seen the seven wonders of the world, and elephants, and rhinoceros, and polypi, and hippopotami, and Dawalageri, and anthropophagi.'

"'Good gracious!' said she, looking wild, 'You reckon he will speak to me? do tell me something to say!'

"'Could you repeat those names?'

"'That I couldn't, to save my life!'

"'Well,—let me see,—you must be very sober and wise; only saying 'yes' and 'no,' till he gets to talking of books. Then is the time to show off. Literary people never inquire what you remember in a book, if you say you have read it.'

"'Yes,' she struck in, with a grin. "So when he asks me if I've read them he's talking about, I'm a-going to say 'yes'—(you know she is always 'going, going, gone.') 'He ain't a-going to catch me, I'll show him!'

"'Right,' said I; 'and question him about two or three, which you name yourself; that will finish the business.'

"'I don't know none.'

"'Don't you? Then I will write off a short list. Keep the paper in your hand; and when he is fairly under way talking, you steal a sly peep at it.' Oh! it was enrapturing to see how she held on to that slip of paper! poring over it every five minutes before Mr. Dermott's arrival, and once in two minutes afterwards. She would study it for a second, then her lips would move, until the time for another peep; she was getting it by heart, staring at him all the while. By and by he happened to be near her; and said something about the Panorama. She had been on tiptoe for the last hour, lest her trouble should be thrown away; and resolved not to lose this opportunity, she spoke out as loudly as addressing a deaf person—

"'Mr. Dermarck! have you ever read Plutarch-es Liv-es, Homer's Eyelids, Dance's Diving Comedy and Campbell's Gratitude of Wimming?' I wish you could have seen him!"

"O Ellen! Ellen!" chorussed twenty voices; and the crowd rocked in uncontrollable merriment. Carry, and one or two more were grave; and an indignant voice said, "How wickedly heartless!"

There was no mistaking the meaning and emphasis of the interjection. Ellen crimsoned to the roots of her hair. She retorted with a spirit entirely opposite to her usual sportive gaiety.

"One, whose lowest thoughts soar so far above the common herd, as Miss Ross, cannot be expected to understand a piece of harmless pleasantry."

Ida had unluckily employed the oft-quoted words, "the common herd of mankind," in a written composition; and this was not the first time it had been used as an offensive missile.

"One must stoop low indeed, Miss Morris," was the instant rejoinder, "to see harmless pleasantry in a plot for the disgrace of an unoffending school-mate."

"Ida! Ellen!" exclaimed Carry, laying her hand upon Ellen's mouth, and stifling her reply. "For my sake, girls—if not for your own—say no more! Ida! what have you to do with this miserable affair?"

"I have done!" said Ida, bitterly; "Defence of right and truth is better left unattempted here!"

The girls fell back as she crossed to her seat. The sentence sank into every mind; and the expression of each one showed that she appropriated it. Carry's head dropped upon Ellen's shoulder; and sullenly vindictive as was the latter, she was not unmoved by the quiver of the slender frame. Mr. Purcell's entrance put an end to the scene. That was a wretched day to more than one heart. Ida's was well-nigh bursting. It mattered not that her prospects of popularity were, for the present, shipwrecked; that her resolutions of patience and gentleness had broken, like dry straws, at the breeze of passion;—Carry was wounded—perhaps offended—perhaps estranged! "Still, what have I done?" whispered pride, "spoken truth, and defended the absent!" But conscience answered—"Anger, not justice was the prompter," and again, every feeling merged in one—"What will Carry think?" She did not offer her book as usual—did not meet her eye. She would have read no resentment there; the pale, sad face told of suffering, with no admixture of baser motives. The intermission was dull. Miss Celestia's extravagant description of "the party," and "the gentlemen" she "was interduced to," hardly excited a smile. A nameless depression was upon all. Ellen, their ringleader in mischief, and Carry, the willing participant in their innocent pleasures, were wanting from their band. They remained at their desks, seemingly engaged in study, until almost school-time, when Carry went around to the other, whispered a word; and they left the apartment together. They returned arm in arm, as Ida, who had gone home in recess, more to be quieted and refreshed by the cool air, than for luncheon,—entered from the street. She remarked their affectionate air, and happier faces with goading envy. "Ellen is worth conciliating. It would be dangerous to break with her. There can be no hesitancy, with the fair words of the crowd in one scale—and Ida Ross, unknown and unbeloved, in the other. Be it so!" But awakened affection had had a taste of its proper nutriment, and was not to be famished into silence. The afternoon wore heavily away in the unspoken anguish of love and pride and suspicion. Careless of remarks or conjectures, she declined dinner, and retired at once to her chamber, when she reached home. It might have been one hour;—it might have been three, that she had knelt or laid upon the floor, her head upon a stool, before the mourner for the dead bird;—weeping and thinking, and seeming to grow a year older with each flood of grief; when there came a tap at the door. "Josephine!" was the first thought—to spring to the mirror, brush the tumbled hair, and dash rosewater over the discolored cheeks, the work of the next minute; then she said sleepily—"Who is there?"

"It is I—Carry!"

The bolt was withdrawn, and the intruder lay, sobbing upon her breast.

"Oh, Ida! how could you be angry with me?"

Ida struggled with the answering drops, but they would come.

"I thought you had thrown me off, Carry!"

"You could not—after my note."

"Your note!"

"I slipped it into your French Grammar, as it lay open before your eyes; and you shut the book and put it aside,—I supposed to read it at your leisure."

"I did not see it."

She went to her satchel, and brought forth the Grammar. "There it is!" said Carry, as a folded paper fell from within it. "Do not read it. I will tell you its contents. I asked your forgiveness for interrupting you so rudely this morning; but these public disputes lead to so much evil. Ellen was wrong; she has said so to me; and is ready to be your friend, if you consent. Her conduct was blameably thoughtless; and her quick temper could not submit to a rebuke so openly administered. I was abrupt, but it was not because I was angry with, or did not love you. Ellen's taunt was extremely provoking"—

"Stop! stop! Carry! It is I, who should sue for pardon, and excuse, if I can, my unbecoming heat, and after doubts of your friendship. I cannot tell you what a fearful warfare has waged within me;—how much incensed I was to see you and Ellen come in so lovingly, at noon;—how Ishmael-like I felt;—every man's hand against me, and mine against the universe, and Him who made it," she added, with an intonation of awe. "Can you love me after hearing this, Carry?"

"Always—always!"

Ellen was amazed, that afternoon, on being summoned to receive visitors, to find in them her two class-mates, and more astounded to hear from her antagonist of the morning, a frank and graceful apology for her hasty strictures upon her conduct and words. Ellen was, as she phrased it, "great upon high-flown speeches; but this was an extraordinary occasion, and demanded a deviation from ordinary rules; so I condescended, for once, to make use of simple language."

If simple, it was satisfactory, and they parted most amicably. It was past sunset, when the friends arrived at Mr. Read's door. Ida stood upon the steps, watching Carry, as she tripped away into the dusk. Others would have seen only a pretty girl, with a smile like May sunshine;—to the fond eyes that followed her, she was an angel of love, upon whom nothing of evil could gaze without adoration and contrition;—and now the light of a new blessing beaming upon her brow—the blessing of the peace-maker!

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[CHAPTER VII.]

Spring had departed, and the good citizens of Richmond complained as piteously of the heat, as though every zephyr that awoke for miles around, did not sweep over their seven hills freighted with the perfume of gardens and groves, instead of the reeking odors of a thronged city. And in our day, as then, airy, spacious villas are forsaken, while their infatuated denizens hie away to pay $50 per week, for a genteel sty, six feet by ten; with the privilege of eating such fare, as in the event of its appearance upon their own boards, would find its way back to the place where it was concocted, accompanied by an anathematised warning to the cook;—and of gulping down unwholesomely-copious draughts of a nauseous liquid, which the stomach neither relishes, nor needs. There is dancing "all night, 'till broad day-light," a dusty drive to assist the digestion of a breakfast, one's common sense, no less than the digerent organs assures him is insured against chylifaction; promenading until dinner, which meal is taken in full dress;—another drive, or an enervating siesta, and it is time to dress for supper; then dancing again; and at the end of "the season," the fashionable votaries return, jaded and debilitated, to home and comfort, and tell you, with a ghastly smile, that they have been ruralizing at the "Carburretted, Sulphuretted, Chalybeate Springs." Ruralizing at the Springs! sketching a landscape from an Express train—sleeping in a canal-boat—reciprocating ideas with a talkative woman!

Mr. Read came home to tea, on a sultry July evening, with some crotchet in his brain. That could be seen with half an eye; and Josephine was affable to a distressing degree, to coax the stranger into an earlier incubation, than would occur without artificial warmth. The effects of her Eccolodeon were presently apparent.

"When does your session close, Josey?" he inquired.

"On Friday, sir."

"Then you will be on your head to quit town, like everybody else."

"I have no solicitude on the subject, sir. I am as indifferent to it, as to many other things people rave about."

"You are your father's child, cool and hard!" observed her parent, with a gratified look.

"But for a novelty, what say you to a trip to Saratoga?"

"I should like it, sir,—if you accompany me."

"I have business which takes me in that direction, and I thought, as you are to 'come out' next winter, it would sound well to have made your début at such a fashionable place."

Josephine smiled; she could appreciate this argument. The journey was discussed—the expenses, dress, appearance, etc. Ida sat by, taciturn and unconsulted. She had a motive in remaining. Finally, she contrived to throw in a word.

"I wish to inform you of my arrangements for the summer, sir, if you have time to listen."

"Yours! they are the same as ours, of course. Do you imagine that I would permit my daughter to travel without a female companion, or give her an advantage, you are not to share!"

The latter clause was so clearly an afterthought, and dove-tailed so oddly with its antecedent, that Ida's smile was almost a sneer.

"I am sorry, sir, that you are disappointed in your calculations; but as Josephine has a maid, I do not deem my attendance indispensable. If I leave town, I shall go in another direction, unless you positively forbid it."

"And what place is to be honored by your preference? May I presume to ask?"

"I shall go home with Miss Carleton."

"Ahem! I comprehend. I should have anticipated this from your overpowering intimacy. You have played your cards badly, Josephine. Why have you not ingratiated yourself with some 'divine creature,' who has a rich papa? It is a capital means of extending one's acquaintance, and sparing one's purse. How long do you intend to sponge—to remain, I mean, with your friend, Miss Ross?"

"I may not return before Christmas. I hear that the holidays are celebrated with much style and festivity, in the country," she replied.

Mr. Read suppressed something very like an oath, at her calm assurance.

"When do you go?"

"Next Monday. Dr. Carleton is expected daily. Did I understand you to say, that you did not object?"

"Confound it! what do I care where, or when you go?"

"Oh Carry!" apostrophized Ida, shutting herself in her room. "Even you could not be charitable and forbearing here. It is hard! hard!"

"That is unquestionably the most wrong-headed girl I know," said Mr. Read, to his daughter.

"I am heartily glad she is not going with us," was the answer. "She would be of no use to me, and an additional care to you."

"Maybe so, maybe not. Her travelling expenses would not have come out of my pocket; and there are advantages, sometimes, in having two ladies, a larger and better room, and such like; you pay the same price, and have twice the value of your money. You understand?"

"I don't care. I had rather sleep upon a pallet in a loft, by myself, than in the handsomest room in the house, with her for a room-mate. It frets me, though to see her airs! I wish the law allowed you absolute control."

"It won't do with her. If she suspected a design on my part to abridge her liberties, or defraud her of her dues, she would as lief enter a complaint against me as not. She has the temper of the Evil One; and watch as you may, will get the bit between her teeth."

The carriage was at the door by six o'clock on Monday morning. Ida was ready; but her trunk was strapped on, and her maid seated upon the box with the driver, before she appeared. The truth was, she dreaded to meet Dr. Carleton. She did not recollect her own father, and had no agreeable associations connected with any who bore that relation to her young acquaintances. She was inclined to look upon the class, as a set of necessary discords in life; Mr. Read being the key-note. Carry often spoke of her surviving parent with earnest affection; but Ida attributed this to a charity, that beheld no faults in those she loved. The thought of her ride and visit would have been unalloyed, but for this idiosyncrasy. "If he were like Mr. Dana!" she said, going slowly down stairs. He was in the porch, with Mr. Read and Carry. "My friend Ida, father," said Carry. He was not like Mr. Dana,—better than that! He was the image of Carry—her eyes, mouth and smile—his locks, although silvered by years, must in youth have waved in the same golden curls. He was handsome yet, how could he be otherwise! and had she failed to love him at sight, the unaffected geniality of his salutation would have captivated her. She had not a care in the world, as she reclined in the carriage, beside Carry, the revolving wheels bearing her towards the country. Mr. Read and his feminine prototype were sign-posts, marking rough and miry roads she had travelled; they were troubles no more; she was leaving them behind.

There had been a thunder-storm in the night, and in that brief fit of passion, nature had wept away every unkind or unpleasant emotion. The sky wore that rich, soft, transparent hue, which imparts its own pureness to the soul of him, who looks upon it; smilingly luring it to soar away, and "steep itself in the blue of its remembered home;" the forest-leaves glittered with rain-diamonds, and the bird-matin was warbled by a full orchestra. And on, through the slants of sunlight, and the alternations of deep, green shade; with the old, familiar chirpings in her ear, and the touch of the loved one's hand upon hers, rode the orphan; very quiet, through excess of happiness; afraid to speak or move, lest this should prove a never-to-be realized dream, whose awaking should bring bitter, hopeless yearnings!

Little by little, Carry broke up her musings; and her father seconded her. He was prepared to like his daughter's friend, and there was that in his eye and voice, which made Ida forget, as she had done with Carry,—that she was talking with a stranger.

"That is a fine specimen of your favorite tree, Ida," observed Carry, pointing to a majestic pine, grand and solitary, at the entrance of a grove of oaks.

"And superb it is, in its loneliness!" said Ida.

"Farmers would cavil at your taste," remarked Dr. Carleton. "'Pine barrens' are proverbial. A thick growth of them is an unmistakeable sign of poverty of soil. Nothing else can extract sustenance from the worn out ground."

"That is why I like them, sir. There is sublimity in their hardy independence, taking root, as you say, where pampered, or less robust vegetation would perish, and with never-furling banners, stretching up boldly towards the stars."

"They are emblems to you—of what?" asked the Doctor.

"Of the few really great ones, who have demonstrated that human nature is not of necessity, vile or imbecile, or yet a debtor to accident, for its spice of good."

"The gifted,—or the fortunate?"

"The resolute,—sir. They, who have riven the shackles of low birth or poverty, and made for themselves a glorious name—out of nothing!—have done it by the naked force of will. Call it 'talent' or 'genius,' if you choose;—upon analyzation, you will resolve it into this one element of character."

"It is a sorry task to pick flaws in your beautiful analogy," said the old gentleman. "You may not be aware that your pine, sturdy as it appears, is less fitted than any other tree, for standing alone; its roots running out laterally from the trunk; and lying near the surface of the earth. Cut down the outer row which have kept off the tempests, and helped to support him, and the first hard wind is apt to lay him low."

"And so there are fates, against which the mightiest of mortal energies are powerless. Leave the pine unprotected, and if it survive one blast, it strikes its roots deeper and deeper into the ground, until it has strength to brave an hundred winters. Adversity, if it does not kill—strengthens."

"Do you favor the philosophy, which teaches that a certain amount of trouble is necessary for the complete development of character?"

"Whether necessary or not—it comes. That is not a matter of hypothesis; but I have seen some, who, I did not think, required discipline; and many more, who wanted softening, instead of hardening."

"Is hardening the legitimate effect of sorrow?" asked he, more gravely. "When the chastening is guided by love, does it not melt and refine? Are strength and hardness synonymous?"

"I question the difference, sir,—as the world goes."

"Instead of referring to 'the world,' in an abstract sense—judge we of the influence of trials, by what we know of ourselves. I never tasted real happiness, until I learned to bear grief, by submitting to the will of Providence."

"And one affliction has embittered life for me!" returned Ida, gloomily.

"Poor child!" then recollecting himself, he addressed Carry in a jesting tone. "And you—Miss Carry—what is your vote upon this important question?"

"I have had no trouble, sir," replied she, lightly, "except school-quarrels. You would not class them in the category of tribulations."

There was sadness in her father's look of love, as he answered, "I hope you may long be able to say so, dear!"

Carry brushed away the mist from her lashes. "'A consummation devoutly to be desired,'—as Charley, or Shakspeare would say. Where is he, father?"

"Who? Shakspeare or Charley?"

"The latter, of course. Apart from his probable location being more easily decided upon,—he is, to me, the more interesting of the two."

"He is somewhere in the Western part of the State;—travelling, partly for pleasure. John told you, that they have committed the New York branch of the business to Mr. E——, and that Charley will in future reside in Richmond."

"Yes, sir. I was glad to hear it; I understood, however, that this change would not be made before Fall. In the interim, are not we to be favoured with his company?"

"I trust so. It will seem like old times for us all to be together again."

"I hope he will come while you are with us, Ida," said Carry. "I am so anxious you should know him!"

"You have seen him, surely, Miss Ida?" said Dr. Carleton.

"I have not yet had that pleasure, sir."

"He is an original worth studying."

"I can credit that. Elle's panegyrics would have created a desire to see this nonpareil of an 'Uncle Charley,' and Carry has raised my curiosity to the highest pitch, by naming him as the successful rival of Shakspeare."

"Oh!" cried Carry, laughing. "I said more interesting to me. Charley is one of my pets; and I am afraid I have presented you with an erroneously flattered picture of him. You must not look for an 'Admirable Crichton.' He is not one to please the fancy on a slight acquaintance."

"Is he as handsome as his brother?"

"Which brother?" inquired the Doctor; and Carry blushed.

"I have met but one," said Ida. "I consider Mr. John Dana very fine-looking."

"I will repeat Charley's ideas of what he styles, his 'personal pulchritude,'" responded Carry. "He says he thanks Heaven he is not handsome. To endow him with a moderate share of beauty, some one would have been deprived of his, or her good looks. No broken hearts are laid at the door of his conscience." 'Yes'—concluded he, triumphantly—'A man ought to be grateful for ugliness; and I am persuaded that not many have as much cause to rejoice on that score as myself!'"

"He is not homely," said her father, warmly.

"Ah father! other people tell a different story."

"That may be; but where you find one handsomer face than his, you see a thousand destitute of its intelligence and agreeableness."

"Granted. Homely or not, I prefer him to any doll-faced dandy of my acquaintance."

"He is fortunate in his advocates," said Ida. "He has the art of making friends."

"Because he is such a firm friend himself," replied Carry. "Yet some will have it that he is frivolous and unfeeling. The only satirical remark I was ever guilty of, was extorted by an aspersion of this kind. A lady was offended by a playful bagatelle of his; and thinking that I would be a sure medium of communicating her wrath to its object, criticised him unsparingly. She ridiculed his person and manners;—I said nothing. She said he was bankrupt in chivalry and politeness. I smiled; and she blazed out a philippic against his 'disgusting levity and nonsense—he had not a spark of feeling, or grain of sense—intelligent indeed! for her part she had never heard him say a smart or sensible thing yet.'—I put in my oar here—'You will then allow him one talent, at least; the ability to adapt his conversation to the company he is in.' I repented having said it; but it quieted her."

"You did not reproach yourself for taking the part of your friend!"

"No, but I might have done it in a less objectionable manner. It did not alter her feelings to him, and caused her to dislike me."

"How is it, sir, that I hear so much more of this one of your former wards, than of his younger brother?" said Ida to the Doctor.

The question was innocently propounded, and for an instant, she was puzzled by the quizzical demureness, with which he glanced at his daughter.

"This is a serious charge, Carry. Your predilection for one old play-fellow should not make you forgetful of another."

She was looking down, touching the shining tire of the wheel with the tip of her gloved finger. The truth beamed upon Ida; and with it a thousand little circumstances she had been blindly stupid not to understand before. Her intelligent eye said the mystery was explained, but she forbore to say so in words. Dr. Carleton went on in a changed tone.

"Arthur is not a whit behind his brothers in sterling worth, or personal graces. He is associated with me in the practice of medicine, and unites a skill and prudence, rarely found in one so young. He is popular, and deservedly so."

Carry bestowed a grateful smile upon him, and was answered in the same mute language. In such desultory chat, the sunny hours ran out They travelled well; only stopping an hour to dine and rest; yet twilight saw them eight miles from their destination. Each was disposed to silence, as the light grew dimmer; and when the moon smiled at them above the tree-tops, she elicited but a single observation of her beauty. The road was lonely and sheltered; bordered by forests on one side, and thicket-grown banks on the other; the soil sandy and heavy; the tramp of hoofs scarcely heard, and the wheels rolling with a low, crushing sound, that, to Ida, was not unmusical. Silver willows, and twisting 'bamboo' vines, and the long-leaved Typha Latifolia edged the road; and she watched through the openings in the woven screen, for a glimpse of the stream that watered their roots; sometimes deceived by the shimmer of the moon upon the leaves; sometimes, by the white sands, until she doubted whether there was indeed one there;—when the gurgling of falling waters betrayed the modest brooklet, and it widened into a pretty pool; the moon's silver shield upon its bosom. The thicket became taller, and not so dense; tulip trees and oaks in place of the aquatic undergrowth; and between them the fleeting glimmerings of the sky were, to her, an army of pale spectres, marching noiselessly past; no halting or wavering; on, on, in unbroken cavalcade, "down to the dead." And memory, at fancy's call, produced the long roll of those who had gone to the world of shades;—the master-spirits of all ages;—the oppressed and the oppressor;—the lovely and the loved;—had joined that phantom procession;—how few leaving even the legacy of a name to earth! With the Persian Poet, her heart cried out—"Where are they?" and echo answered—"Where are they?" And thought poured on thought, under the weird influence of that enchanted night, until the shadowy host was the one reality in the landscape; and one and another beckoned and waved to her, as they defiled by. She came near shrieking—so startled was she—as a horseman reined up at the window. The moon was at his back; but showed every lineament of her countenance. He raised his hat. "Miss Ross, I believe. I fear my sudden appearance has alarmed you."

"Arthur! my boy! how are you?" exclaimed Dr. Carleton, extending his hand, which was as eagerly seized. "Miss Ross—Dr. Dana."

"Miss Ross will excuse me for having anticipated the introduction," said he, bowing again, and rode to the opposite side of the carriage. The greetings there were more quiet; but it needed not Ida's delicate ear to detect the feeling in the voices which tried to say common-place things. Arthur had much to say to the doctor, and once in a while a remark for her—Carry remaining in the back-ground.

"Were you uneasy that we did not arrive?" asked Dr. Carleton.

"Not uneasy—but restless; and to relieve my impatience rode out to meet you."

He was first on this side—now on that—as the highway afforded him room; but Ida could not get a view of his face. His figure was good, and he sat his horse well;—upon these facts, and such impressions as were made by a pleasant voice and gentlemanly address, she was obliged to form her opinion of his personal appearance, until more light should be shed upon the subject. The house appeared, approached by a shady lane, and so embowered in trees, that only the chimneys were visible from the main road. Carry's tongue was unloosed as she bounded into the midst of the sable throng that swarmed about the carriage. Arthur exclaimed merrily at the clamor of blessings and inquiries.

"Will you accept me as your attendant, Miss Ross? The ceremony of reception will last some time."

But Carry was in the piazza as soon as they were.

"Thank you, Arthur, for taking charge of her. Welcome to Poplar-grove, dear Ida! May you be as happy here as I have been!"

"Amen!" said Dr. Carleton and Arthur, heartily.

Carry acted like a wild creature all the evening. She half-carried Ida to her chamber, and kissed her over and over.

"Now, darling!" she ran on, strewing their shawls and bonnets in all directions. "You see I have no idea of putting you off, company style, in another room. You will be with me morning, noon, and night. My dear, dear room! how natural it looks! and to think I am never to leave it again!"

"Bless your heart!" said a middle-aged mulatto woman, whose mild and pleasing face struck Ida as much as her motherly kindness to her young mistress, "You are not half so glad to get back as we are to have you here."

"Hush, Mammy! you will make me cry. Comb my hair—will you? Not that I do not believe you could do it, Sally; but it used to be Mammy's work."

"Thoughtful of others still," reflected Ida, as the girl Sally displayed a double row of ivories, at Carry's apology. "Can nothing make her selfish?"

"We won't waste time by an elaborate toilet, dear," said Carry, seeing Ida deliberating upon two dresses. "Father will be too much engaged with his supper to notice our dress. Wear the plain white one; it is very becoming; and remember, you are in the back-woods."

Arthur was in the parlor when they descended. He looked as happy as Carry, and "almost as good," thought Ida. She was not de trop; it might have been a brother and sister who strove to convince her that this, their home, was hers for the time-being. The supper-table was set with taste and profusion. Ida wondered whether the ménage were entirely controlled by coloured servants. She learned afterwards that "Mammy," trained by Mrs. Carleton, and until that lady's death, her constant attendant, was housekeeper.

"You have not much affection for a city life, Miss Ida," said Arthur, continuing a conversation commenced in the parlor.

"No. I am country-bred, and cherish a preference for the scenes of my childhood. Perhaps," she said, ingenuously, "the fault is in myself. I did not want to live in Richmond, and determined not to like it."

"And are your aversions so strong that the manifold attractions of the metropolis cannot shake them? or, are you countrified upon principle?"

"I have not given the city a fair trial. It has occurred to me lately that my weariness of it proceeded from monotony rather than satiety. There is little variety in school life."

"Except when we regard it as the world in miniature," said Arthur. "It is different, doubtless, in 'Young Lady Establishments,' but we boys contrived to maintain a healthy circulation, one way or another."

"Is it not a popular fallacy that school-days are the happiest of one's life?" asked Ida.

"Unquestionably," rejoined he, promptly. "As well say that Spring is the farmer's happiest season. He has the pleasures of hope, the delight of viewing his whitening harvests in futuro; but there is severe, unromantic drudgery; suspense and boding fears for the result. The 'harvest home' for me!"

"And when is that!" questioned Ida.

"Now!" said he, with emphasis.

"What do you mean?" inquired Carry.

"That you and Miss Ida begin to reap from this date. To dispense with this inconvenient metaphor, your actions will be the proof of what your lessons have been; every day your knowledge and principles will be brought into play,—you will be binding up sheaves of worthy or of evil deeds."

"You are trying to terrify us," said Carry. "Don't you wish yourself at school again, Ida!"

"Are you sorry you're a-goin' to turn out!" replied Ida, in a peculiar tone.

"Oh, Celestia!" exclaimed Carry, with a burst of laughter.

"Who? what?" said her father.

"One of our school-mates, father; who, hearing another say that she was sorry to quit school, went through the house the day we were dismissed, asking each one confidentially, 'Are you sorry you're a-goin to turn out?' grief at such an event being, in her code, a more heinous sin than to dance at a funeral."

"Who was she?" asked Arthur.

"Miss Pratt—Celestia Pratt."

"Daughter of the member from A——?"

"The same—what do you know of her?"

"I met her once at a ball," he replied.

"Were you introduced?" cried both girls in a breath.

"Yes; and danced with her."

"Enough!" said Carry. "We will not pursue the subject."

"As you please," he returned; "but if I am not mistaken, as Sir Roger says, though with a different meaning, 'much could be said on both sides.'"

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[CHAPTER VIII.]

Poplar-Grove was comparatively a modern place; having been built by the present proprietor at the time of his marriage. The house was of brick, large and commodious; and flanked by neat out-houses and servants' quarters, presenting an imposing appearance, an air of lordly beauty. The shade trees were forest-born; the maple, oak, beech, and fairest of all, the tulip-poplar. Excepting in the green-house, on the south side of the mansion, and a rose-creeper that climbed upon the piazza, not a flower was tolerated within the spacious yard, and the sward was always green and smooth. Dr. Carleton's seat was the pride and envy of the country. "No wonder," growled the croakers; "a man with a plenty of money can afford to be comfortable." They lived in barn-like structures, treeless and yardless; (and who that has travelled in our commonwealth, but knows the heart-sickening aspect of these out-of-door habitations?) raising vegetables, because they must be had to eat; planting orchards, and suffering them to dwindle and pine, for want of attention; and existing themselves after the same shambling style, because they "had it to do;" content to "get along," and not feeling the need of anything higher, until the buried—not dead—sense of the beautiful was exhumed by the sight of the work of taste and industry; and the stupid stare was succeeded by jealous repinings, and the writing down of a long score against Providence. "I tell you what, my friend," the doctor said to one of these murmurers, "instead of harping so much upon one P, try my three, and my word for it, your wishes will be fulfilled sooner by fifty years—they are, Planting, Perseverance and Paint."

In the garden, beauty and utility joined hands, and danced together down the walks. There were squares of thrifty vegetables, deserving a home in the visioned Eden of an ambitious horticulturist; and the banished floral treasures here expanded in every variety of hue and fragrance. There grew hedges of roses, and the dwarf lilac, and the jessamine family, the star, the Catalonian, the white and yellow, thatching one arbor; while the odorous Florida, the coral, and the more common but dearer English honeysuckles wreathed their lithe tendrils over another; and ever-blowing wall-flowers, humble and sweet, gaudy beds of carnations, and brightly-smiling coreopsis, and pure lilies with their fragrant hearts powdered with golden dust—a witching wilderness of delights. Trellises, burdened with ripening grapes, were the boundary line between the garden and the orchard. The same just sense of order and well-being regulated the whole plantation. Kindness was the main-spring of the machinery, but it was a kindness that knew how to punish as well as reward.

"Do you believe in the unity of the human race?" asked Ida, one evening, as she and Carry were taking their twilight promenade in the long parlor.

"Assuredly; but what put that into your head just now?"

"I was thinking of your father; and trying to realize that he belongs to the same species with others I could name. I am compelled to the conclusion that he is an appendix, a later creation, a type of what man would have been had he not 'sought out many inventions.'"

"And what new instance of his immaculateness has induced this sapient belief?"

"I was sitting at the window this afternoon, before he went out, when I heard him call to little Dick to bring his saddle-bags from 'the office.' The boy scampered off, and presently appeared running, still holding the precious load with great care in both hands. 'Steady, my lad,' said your father, and as the warning passed his lips, Dick tripped his foot, and came down—the saddle-bags under him. He cried loudly, and your father ran to pick him up—what do you suppose he said!"

"Inquired if he was hurt, of course."

"He did—but reflect! every phial was smashed, and that is no trifle this far from the city, I take it. Yes—he set the little chap upon his feet, and asked after the integrity of his bones; and when he sobbed, 'I ain't hurt, sir—but de bottles—dey's all broke!' patted him upon the head, and bade him 'stop crying—master isn't angry—you won't run so fast next time,' and let him go. Then, kneeling upon the grass, he unlocked the portable apothecary-shop, and pulled out gallipots and packages, fractured and stained in every imaginable shape and manner—looking seriously perplexed. 'This is an awkward business,' he said, aloud; 'and my stock is so nearly out! but accidents will happen.'"

"And is that all?" said Carry.

"'All!' I have seen men affect forbearance, and talk largely of forgiveness, when they wanted to 'show off,' but he did not know that I was within hearing. Some other principle was at work. I wonder," she said, with a short laugh, "what my esteemed guardian would have said upon the occasion! He punishes a menial more severely for an accident, or thoughtlessness, than for deliberate villany."

"I do not pretend to uphold Mr. Read's doctrines or practice. I am afraid he is thoroughly selfish, and Josephine is too close a copy of him to suit my fancy—but why think or speak of them? Did you not promise to see life through my spectacles awhile? There is a hard look in your eye, and a scorn in your tone, when you refer to them, that repel me. It is so unlike you!"

"So like me, Carry! My character is velvet or fur—stroke it in one direction, and you enhance whatever of beauty or gloss it possesses; reverse the motion, and you encounter rough prickles, and in certain states of the atmosphere, more electricity than is agreeable or safe. I am not changed. The hand of affection is gliding over me now; you may do what you will with me."

"But you are happier than you used to be?"

"I am—happier in you! Do you recollect the stormy November evening when you 'took me in?' Cold, and wet, and shivering as was the body, the heart stood more in need of comfort; and you warmed it—taught me that woman is woman still—brow-beaten, insulted, crushed! The poor, soiled flowerets of love will smile, despite of all—in the face of him, or her whose pitying hand lifts them up. Carry! you do not know what depends upon your fidelity! Have you not read in that most wondrous of books, how the evil spirit returned to the house, which, in his absence, was swept and garnished, and that the latter end of that man was worse than the first?"

"Ida! my own friend! how can you hint such frightful things? I do love you—very dearly? You cannot doubt me."

"Not now. But will the time never come, when other claims will dispossess me of my place? Do not despise me, darling! Do not impute to me the meanness of being envious of your happiness. I rejoice with, and am proud for you—proud of your choice. He is all that a man should be—let me say it—I have never told you so before;—but is it true love expels friendship? You will be as dear to me married as single; why should your affection decrease?"

"It will not!" Could it be the modest Carry who spoke? "Judge for yourself. Arthur and I have loved from childhood. He spoke to me of his hopes two years ago, but father exacted from us a promise that no love but that of brother and sister should be named between us until my school-days were at an end. Yet I knew that I was not a sister to him; and, to me, he was more than the world besides:—and with this sweet consciousness singing its song of hope and blessedness within my heart, I found room for you; and lover and friend were each the dearer for the other's company. You will understand this some day, dear Ida. You are made to be loved—you cannot exist without it, and you will achieve your destiny."

"That love is to be my redemption, Carry. In the upper region of the air there is eternal calm and sunshine, while the clouds brood and crash below. Such calm and light shall my love win for me. I have dwelt for years in the black, noisome vapors—I am rising now! Is it not Jean Paul who says—'Love may slumber in a young maiden's heart, but he always dreams!' I have had dreams—day visions, more transporting than any the night bestows. I have dreamed that my wayward will bent, in glad humility, to a stronger and wiser mind;—that my eye fell beneath the fondness of one that quailed at nothing; that I leaned my tired head upon a bosom, whose every throb was to me an earnest of his abiding truth; and drank in the music of a voice, whose sweetest accent was the low whisper that called me 'his own!' These are not chance vagaries; they have been the food of my heart for long and dreary months; angel-voices about my pillow—my companions in the still twilight hour—summoned by pleasure or pain, to sympathise and console. Then my breast is a temple, consecrated to an ideal, but none the less fervent in the devotion offered therein; the hoarded riches of a lifetime are heaped upon his shrine. I have imagined him high in the world's opinion; doing his part nobly in the strife of life;—and I, unawed by the laurel-crown—unheeding it—say, 'Love me—only love me!' I love to fancy, and feel him present, and sing to him the strains which gush from my soul at his coming. This is one."

She left Carry's side. A lightly-played prelude floated through the darkening room, then a recitative, of which the words and music seemed alike born out of the impulse of the hour:

Thy heart is like the billowy tide
Of some impetuous river,
That mighty in its power and pride,
Sweeps on and on forever.
The white foam is its battle crest,
As to the charge it rushes
And from its vast and panting breast,
A stormy shout up gushes.

"Through all—o'er all—my way I cleave—
Each barrier down-bearing—
Fame is the guerdon of the brave,
And victory of the daring!"
While mine is like the brooklet's flow,
Through peaceful valley's gliding;
O'er which the willow boughs bend low
The tiny wavelet hiding.

And as it steals on, calm and clear,
A little song 'tis singing,
That vibrates soft upon the ear,
Like fairy vespers ringing.
"Love me—love me!" it murmurs o'er,
'Midst light and shadows ranging,
"Love me," It gurgles evermore,
The burden never changing.

Thine is the eagle's lofty flight,
With ardent hope, aspiring
E'en to the flaming source of light,
Undoubling and untiring.
Glory, with gorgeous sunbeam, throws
An Iris mantle o'er thee—
A radiant present round thee glows—
Deathless renown before thee.

And I, like a shy, timid dove,
That shuns noon's fervid beaming,
And far within the silent grove,
Sits, lost in loving dreaming—
Turn, half in joy, and half in fear,
From thine ambitions soaring,
And seek to hide me from the glare,
That o'er thy track is pouring.

I cannot echo back the notes
Of triumph thou art pealing,
But from my woman's heart there floats
The music of one feeling,
One single, longing, pleading moan,
Whose voice I cannot smother—
"Love me—love me!" its song alone,
And it will learn no other!

There was a long stillness. Carry was weeping silently. She was a novice to the world, and believed that many were guileless and loving as herself; but she felt, as she listened to this enthusiastic outflow from ice-girt depths, unfathomable to her, unsuspected by others, that terrible woe was in reserve for the heart so suddenly unveiled. There was, about Ida, when her real character came into action, an earnestness of passion and sentiment that forbade the utterance of trite counsels or cautions; the tide would have its way, and one must abide its ebb in patience. Her first words showed that it had retired.

"I appear strangely fitful to your gentle little self, dear one. It is seldom that I yield to these humours. You have pierced to the bottom of my heart to-night;" linking her arm again in Carry's. "Forget my vehemence, and believe me if you will, the iceberg people say I am."

"Never! oh, Ida! Why do yourself such injustice? Why not let your friends know that you have feeling? They would love you but the more."

"Do not believe it. I should be sent to the Insane Hospital. Hearts are at a discount in the market just now, and hypocrisy above par."

"There you go!" exclaimed Carry. "One moment all softness—the next, an ocean is between us. Contradictory enigma! If I loved you less, I should be angry. You read every leaf of my heart as easily as you unfold a newspaper; and just as I fancy that I have the key to yours, it is shut close—a casket, whose spring I cannot find."

"Or like an oyster," said Ida. "Apropos de bottes—here come the candles, harbingers of supper, and I hear our brace of Esculapii, upon the porch, ready to discuss it."

Carry asked herself if it could be the impassioned improvisatrice, who charmed her father and Arthur into forgetfulness of professional anxieties, and the attractions of the inviting board, by her brilliant play of wit, sparkling and pleasant as foam upon champagne, without its evanescence. The gentlemen admired and liked her. That they unconsciously identified her with Carry, may have accounted for this, in part, but most was owing to her powers of pleasing. An inquiry, made with extreme gravity, as to the number and welfare of their patients, was the preface to a burlesque sketch of the saddle-bag scene; in which, not a hint of the reflections it inspired, escaped her; and when she described the doctor's rueful countenance, as he held up the neck and stopple of a large phial, saying dolefully, "The Calomel too, and three cases of fever on hand!" Arthur resigned knife and fork, in despair of eating another mouthful, and Dr. Carleton drew out his Bandanna to wipe off the coursing tears.

"Hist," said Ida, her finger uplifted, "some one is coming!" The roll of an approaching vehicle was plainly heard; the coachman's sharp "Whoa!" followed by a cheer, in sound like a view-hallo, but it said, "Ship ahoy!"

"Charley! Charley!" screamed Carry, upsetting the tea-urn on her way to the door, pursued by Arthur and Dr. Carleton. Ida went as far as the porch. She heard Mrs. John Dana's voice, then her husband's; and Elle's incoherent response to the efforts made to awaken her; but the stranger was chief spokesman. "Look after your wife and the baggage, John; I will disembark the lighter freight. Elle! Elle! don't you want to see Aladdin's lamp? Aha! well, here is something prettier—Aunt Carry, and a nice supper. Charley! you monkey! wide awake as usual! Feel if you have your own head, my boy! People are apt to make mistakes in the dark. Give me that small-sized bundle, Jenny—you'll lose it in the weeds, and then there will be the mischief to pay. One, two, three, all right!" And with the "small-sized bundle" in his arms, he marched up the walk, Carry scolding and laughing.

"Charley! you are too bad! give her to me—a pretty figure you are, playing nurse!"

"He has carried her, or Elle, before him, on the horse, all the way!" said Mrs. Dana. "Ida, my love, how do you do?" warmly kissing her. John Dana shook hands with her, and Elle cried, "Cousin Ida! you here at grandpa's!"

Charley gave a comic glance at his burden, when he was presented; but his bow was respectful, and as graceful as the case admitted. Ida hardly saw him until the second supper was served; Carry insisting that she should occupy her accustomed seat, and go through the form of eating. Elle petitioned for a chair by her, and the three brothers were together on the opposite side of the table. They were an interesting study. John, with his strong, dark, yet singularly pleasing physiognomy, was the handsomest; but his precedence in age, and perhaps rougher experiences in life, had imparted an air of command, which, while it became him well, deterred one from familiarity. Charley was so unlike him, that the supposition of their being of the same lineage, seemed absurd. His hair and complexion were many shades lighter, and the features cast in a different mould, his eyes the only fine ones in the set. He was not so tall, by half a head, and more slightly built. Arthur was the connecting link; with John's height, and Charley's figure; the perfect mouth and teeth of one; the brown eyes of the other; and hair and skin a juste milieu between the two. Ida's attention was most frequently directed to the new-comer. She thought him more homely than his brothers; and it certainly was not a family resemblance that troubled her with the notion, that she had seen him somewhere not very long ago—when, she could not say—except that his expression was not the same as now. Heedless of her observation, he rattled on; doing ample justice to the edibles, in some unaccountable manner; his gastronomical and vocal apparatus never interfering; yet withal, he was an excellent listener; and allowed the rest of the party to say whatever they wished. "He would be worth his weight in gold to a comic almanac-maker," thought Ida, as he dashed off caricature and anecdote, conveying a character in an epithet, and setting the table in a roar, by a grimace or inflection. His pictures, however, were coloured by his gay mood; there were no frowning portraits, and their smiles were all broad grins.

"You have not learned to love buttermilk, yet, Charley?" said Carry, as John called for a second tumbler of the cooling beverage.

"Can't say that I have. Did I write you an account of my begging expedition?"

"Begging! no—tell me now."

"It was in the Valley. Fitzgerald and I—you know Fitz., Arthur—were on a hunting frolic. We went up on the mountains, and fell in with game in abundance, but despicable accommodations. We were at it for three days. The first night we 'camped out,' gipsy style; built a rousing fire to scare the wild beasts; wrapped our dreadnoughts around us, and 'lay, like gentlemen taking a snooze,' feet towards the fire, and faces towards the moon. I had made up my mind that there would be precious little romance, and less comfort, in this very roomy hotel; but Fitz. was sentimentally inclined, and I let him alone. 'A life in the woods for me!' said he, as he stretched himself upon the ground. I was fast asleep in two minutes, so far as sounds went. 'Charley!' he exclaimed, at my heavy breathing. 'Pshaw! he's off! he has no more poetry in him than there is in a—rock!"

"I guessed that he was helped to this illustration, by his discovery of the quantity of the substance in the soil thereabouts, for he shifted his position. He was tolerably still for about five minutes; then there was a jerk, and 'I have not picked the softest spot, surely!' After another season of quiet came, 'How he sleeps! If he were to swap sides with me, he would not be disturbing the echoes in that style!'

"A brief objurgation to an unnamed annoyance, was comment fourth. I slept on perseveringly. He bore it for an hour, and then got up and mended the fire, by which he was moodily seated, when I awoke from my first nap. 'Hallo!' said I, rubbing my eyes, 'Is it morning?' 'No! and what's more, I don't believe it's ever coming?' with a savage accent. 'Ah well! just hail me when it does break,' and I dropped back 'That is more than flesh and blood can bear!' said he, with awful deliberateness, 'Here I can't get a wink of sleep, and you are snoring away with a forty horse power. Maybe you think you are on a feather bed, man!' fiercely ironical.

"'A feather bed!' just opening my eyes—'a feather bed is nothing to it, Fitz.'

"'I believe you!' he said.

"The morning did come, and we had splendid shooting, and happened on a log cabin that night, where we were permitted to lodge, leaving most of our game for its mistress, who refused money for her hospitality. By three o'clock of the last day, we turned our faces towards home, and by rare luck, overtook a man who lived upon Fitz.'s farm, him we loaded with our guns and game-bags, he being on horseback, and fresh, we on foot and tired. Presently a traveller passed us, crossing to the other side of the road, and eyeing us suspiciously. 'Fitz.,' observed I, 'How hard that man looked at you. You are not exactly in holiday trim, my dear fellow!'

"'I haven't seen any man, or thought of myself, I was too much absorbed in conjecturing how such an ugly creature as you, was ever raised—you couldn't have been, except in Eastern Virginia.'

"After some sparring, we laid a bet as to how the people of the first house we came to, would decide the question of our comparative beauty, 'I have it!' said he, 'We are foreigners; talk the most villainous jargon you can invent, and trust me for the rest. We shall hear criticisms enough, I'll warrant.'

"We were ripe for fun; and reaching a small farm-house, Fitz. opened the gate. 'Recollect we know no Inglese!' We were grotesque figures, wearing bell-crowned hats of white felt, drab wrappers, coated with mud, and green-hunting shirts. Add a beard of three days' growth, and brigandish mustachios, and you have our 'picters.' The men were off at work, but the women peeped at us from all quarters. Fitz. walked meekly up to a girl who was washing in the yard.

"'Avezyouvuspaimum?'

"'What!' said she, wringing the suds from her hands.

"'Wevusivusfaimetsoif,' winking at me for confirmation.

"'Yaw! pax vobiscum!' returned I, in imitation of poor Wamba; and pointing into my throat.

"'Two forrinners,' said an older woman. 'Come, see 'em, chillen.'

'You are hungry, ain't you?' said the girl.

"'Novuscomprendum.'

"'And thirsty, too?' to me.

"I put my finger to my mouth, with a voracious snap. Away she ran, and was back in a minute, with a plate of cold Irish potatoes and a bowl of buttermilk; a younger sister following with another."

"What did you do?"

"I drank it! absolutely! I, who had never looked at a churn without shuddering. I desired to make a favorable impression. The children were gaping at the sights; and I contrived, before handing the bowl to one of them, to drop a piece of money into the milk left in the bottom 'for manners.' I wished it back in my pocket, as the old hag, after a prolonged stare, pointed her skinny hand at me, 'Sary, I think this 'ere one is rayther the wuss looking, don't you?'

"Fitz. burst into a laugh, that scared them all in one direction, while we beat a retreat in the other."

"A hearty laugh helpeth digestion," said Dr. Carleton, setting back in his chair. "Miss Ida, if you and Charley will undertake my practice, I am in hopes that the casualty of the afternoon will be less disastrous than we apprehend."

"What casualty?" asked Charley.

The doctor explained:

"And you seize upon a prime lot of choice spirits, as a substitute for your tinctures and drugs. Fie, Doctor! I thought you were a temperance man!"

"I have the best right to your services," said Carry, clasping her hands around his arm, and walking with him towards the parlor. "And I forewarn you, I have enough for you to do. Ida and I have moped here for a fortnight, without a single frolic, and with an alarmingly scanty supply of beaux."

He looked down at her, as he would have done at Elle.

"You ride, do you not?"

"There is a pleasant fiction that we have morning excursions, daily; but history records but three such felicitous events."

"Where was Arthur?"

"Hush, my dear sir, the country is sickly; and——" she said, sotto voce, "He will not hear of father's going out after nightfall; and they have had several difficult cases, of late, demanding almost constant attendance."

"Then, if you are willing, I will enter upon my duties as escort, to-morrow morning."

"Oh! not so soon! you may have time to recover from your fatigue."

"Fatigue! fudge! I could dance all night. Are you fond of riding, Miss Ross?"

"I used to like it; I am sadly out of practice now."

"A fault easily cured, if you are not timid."

"Not she!" said Carry; "and want of practice notwithstanding, she is a better horsewoman than I."

This was demonstrated in the course of the first ride; and both improved rapidly under the tuition of their self-constituted instructor.

John returned to the city; Arthur's time was never at his own disposal; the care of the girls devolved entirely upon Charley. From the moment of his arrival, Ida studied him intently, and each hour brought difficulties, instead of elucidation. Easy and kind, always at their service; and performing the tasks assigned him, as if they were real pleasures, he was nothing of a "ladies' man;" eschewed gallant speeches, and consigned flatterers to the tender mercies of Mrs. Opie. She felt that he was affectionate, but would have been at a loss to produce proof thereof. He never let fall a syllable of endearment, yet Carry and the children read something in his face which said more. His tastes were cultivated, and his mind well-informed, but he set at naught the laws of conversational etiquette; his sayings had as marked a style as his features; a style, which those who did not know better, termed "droll," and those who did, dubbed "Charley's;" it was referable to no thing or person else. His candor was not his least remarkable trait. He was obstinately silent when appealed to for an opinion, or gave it rough-hewn; no rounding-off of sharp corners; no filling out here, or sloping in there, so as to fit neatly to another's. He made no distinctions of rank; pulled off his hat to the meanest field-hand, with as gentle courtesy as though he had been the President; and severed the thread of her most sprightly narrations, to thank the ragged urchin, who unfastened gates, or let down drawbars, in their desultory excursions.

"He is one of the best of men," delivered Mammy, as foreman of the kitchen jury. Ida smiled at the harum-scarum figure, which arose in her mind, in opposition to the image of sanctity, Mammy's description should have summoned.

"You do not do him justice, Ida," observed Carry.

"My smile was not of unbelief, but amusement; I like him. There is a rich vein of quaint humor in his mind; and his unebbing spirits entitle him to the honors of the laughing philosopher."

"He is more than that—"

"Who was it I heard wishing for a frolic?" asked Charley, coming in. "I met a boy with a basket full of perfumery and white satin ribbon, at the gate. I had to stand between him and the wind, while he gave me these. 'Miss Carleton'—'Miss Ross'—'Dr. Dana and brother,' they would swindle a fellow out of his birth-right! 'Mr. and Mrs. Truman solicit the pleasure—' hum—no doubt they will be overjoyed—'evening, 27th August'—what is it, Carry?"

"We were talking of it this morning, the bridal party given to William Truman and lady."

"Whom did he marry?"

"He isn't married at all; on the 26th, he is to conduct to the hymeneal altar, the beautiful Miss Sophia Morris, of Richmond, Virginia."

"No newspaper reporter could be more explicit. You will go?"

"That depends upon Miss Ross' inclinations, and somebody's gallantry."

"Poor dependence—that last! Do you know the bride elect—that is to be?"

"The bride elect, that is—is sister to a school-mate of ours; and I have some acquaintance with herself."

"Ellen will be with her sister," said Ida. "I shall enjoy meeting her. Her laugh will carry us back to days of yore."

"To days of yore," said Charley, balancéing to an imaginary partner. "Is it three or four weeks since you parted! In a young lady's calendar, a month is an age, six months eternity. You look upon me as a miracle of longevity, do you not?"

"As old enough to be less saucy," said Carry. "Do you know that this habit of catching up one's words is very rude?"

He threw a quick glance to Ida. "Miss Ross is not offended, I trust. Nothing was further from my intention than to wound or offend. I am too prone to speak without thought. Forgive me this time."

"Upon two conditions."

"Name them."

"First, that you never again imagine an apology due, when no offence has been committed; secondly, that you drop that very punctilious 'Miss Ross,' and adopt your brother's manner of address."

"Agreed! to both. If I presume upon my privileges, I rely upon you for admonition."

"And this party?" said Carry. "Sit down and be a good boy, while Ida and I talk it over."

He brought up a stool in front of their sofa, and, knees at a right angle, feet close together; and folded hands, waited humbly for the crumbs that might be flung to him.

"It is eight miles off," said Carry, "but there will be a moon—"

("Most generally is!")

"Be quiet, sir! it will be moonlight, and the road is level and dry—"

("It stops at the creek to get a drink!")

She aimed a blow at him with her fan, which he dodged.

"I am so little acquainted with them," objected Ida.

"That's nothing. Mr. and Mrs. Truman are the most hospitable of human beings, and Mary is a lovely girl—"

("Per latest steamer from Paradise.")

"We must go. Sister is here to keep father company. Now the last query—what shall we wear?"

("The first shall be last.")

"White muslins," returned Ida.

"Yes; and the thinnest we have. Nothing else is endurable this weather—"

("Except iced juleps!")

"Arthur!" cried Carry, with a pretty affectation of vexation. "Come in, and keep your brother quiet!"

"What is he doing? he seems very harmless," said Dr. Dana, stepping through the window from the piazza.

The maligned individual applied his fist to his eye. "I ain't a-touching nothin!"

"I am security for his good behaviour," continued Arthur, laying his arm across his shoulder. "Proceed with the case in hand."

The rival merits of peach-blossoms and azure were set forth; bandeaux preferred to curls—the gentlemen giving the casting vote;—kid and satin slippers paraded—Charley advocating "calf-skin;"—a muttering of "patriotism" and "domestic manufacture," checked by a pinch from his brother;—every knot of ribbon;—each bud and leaf of the bouquets were settled to the taste of the fair wearers before the council adjourned.

---

[CHAPTER IX.]

The most spacious of Mrs. Truman's chambers was prepared for the ladies' dressing-room, on the evening of the party; and there were no spare corners, although several of the neighbours offered their houses for the use of those who dared not tempt the chance of crumpled robes and disarranged coiffures; the probable consequence of a ride eight or ten miles in gala dress. Every stage of the toilet was in progress, from the chrysalis of the dressing-gown to the full-winged butterfly, the sylph, who, with a dainty adjustment of her diaphanous drapery, and a last, lingering look at the flattering mirror, declared herself "ready."

Ida and Carry were bent upon dressing alike; no easy matter to do, consistently with their perceptions of colours and fitness. No one hue became both; so they proscribed the prismatic tints and appeared in virgin white. Carry was beautiful as a dream of Fairy Land. The plump, white arms were bare to the shoulder, and without other ornament than their own fairness, except a chain of gold, attached to a locket, containing her parents' hair. This she never left off. Snowy gloves hid hands, softer still; the exquisitely-fitted corsage, and the waist it enclasped, were the admiration, and, if truth must be told, the envy of the bevy of talkative damsels; but few remarked upon these after a sight of her face. Her hair would curl, do what she would; the rebellious bandeaux refused to be plastered upon the blue-veined temples, but rippled and glittered, like nothing but a stream, golden in the sunset. The most artful soupçon of rouge was a palpable counterfeit compared with her living bloom; pearls lay between the ruby lips; and a spirit, more priceless than gold or rubies, or pearls beamed from the liquid eyes. Ida looked forward with delight to Arthur's exultant smile, when he should behold her; and Carry, alike forgetful of self, was lost in gratified contemplation of the elegant figure of her friend. With not a tithe of the beauty of half the girls present, her tout ensemble was striking and attractive. The haughtiness which held the crowd at a distance, gave a high-bred tone to her bearing, and one sentence, uttered in her clear voice, and a smile dispelled all unfavourable impressions.

Arthur and Charley were at the foot of the stairs.

"What a Babel!" said Ida, as they entered the thronged rooms.

"And what a waste of breath!" replied Charley. "There is neither sociability, or rational enjoyment, to be had in these very large assemblies."

"I rather like the excitement of the crowd;" said Ida, "it affects me strangely, but agreeably; with the same sensation the waves may feel in their sports,—a tumultuous glee at being a part of the restless whole,—never still, and always bounding onward."

"How do you account for it? Is it magnetism—animal electricity?"

"Perhaps so. If, as some contend, we are electrical machines, the revolving currents of the subtle fluid must operate powerfully upon the system of each, in a crowd like this. But to leave speculative ground—perilous to me, inasmuch as I do not know what I am talking about—"

"And I understand the science less," interrupted he. "You remember the Scotchman's definition of metaphysics—what were you going to ask?"

"Why you dislike these scenes? I fancied you would be in your element."

"Excuse me for saying that I suspect you class me among amphibious creatures—a sui generis—equally at home in the air, earth, and water, and not over-well qualified for any of these states of existence."

Ida would have disclaimed; but he had come too near the mark; the eyes that asked a reply were penetrating as laughing; she was thankful that the bridal party released her from their regards.

"The bride is pretty," he observed, when the confusion was a little over.

"Tame praise for such beauty," said Ida.

"What then? superb—magnificent? and if I wish to describe the Alps or Niagara, can you help me to a word?"

"You do not affect the florid style now in vogue?"

"No. It is the vice of American language and literature. We 'pile on the agony,' until the idea is smothered; plain words lose their meaning, become too weak to go alone, and have to be bolstered up by sonorous adjectives."

Ida smiled, and turned her head to look for Ellen Morris. Charley remarked the movement, and imitated it.

"Ha! can it be!" he exclaimed.

"What!" she questioned.

"I cannot be mistaken! it is he! What wind has blown him hither? An old—I thought, a transatlantic friend; the gentleman with the moustache, conversing with one of the bridesmaids."

"Ellen Morris! I see him; but he deserves more than the doubtful designation of the 'gentleman with the moustache.' Who, and what is he?"

"An artist and poet, just returned from Italy, and the hero of divers adventures, which, as you love the romantic, I may relate to you in my poor way some day. His cognomen is Lynn Holmes."

"He looks the poet; how handsome!"

"'Tame praise for such beauty,'" quoted Charley, with mock gravity.

It was, when applied to the face and form before them. He was not above the medium height; symmetrically proportioned, hair purplish in its blackness, the arched nostril, and short upper lip indicative of spirit end gentle birth, and the rich, warm complexion had caught its flush from Italian suns. Its rapid fluctuations, plainly visible through the transparent olive of his cheek, spoke too, of passions kindled by that burning clime. But his eyes! Ida's were darker, as she gazed into their midnight—large and dreamy and melancholy! a world of unwritten poetry; but when did poet have, or artist paint such!

"What is the conclusion of the whole matter?" asked Charley, patiently.

"That you should speak to your friend;" letting go his arm. "I shall not mind your leaving me alone."

He replaced her hand. "Content yourself. Miss Morris will not thank me, if I intrude at present. There is time enough. Pity he has chosen a starving profession."

"And why 'pity,' if in so doing he has followed the beckoning of genius! He has hearkened to, and obeyed the teachings of his higher nature. Can they mislead?"

"When we mistake their meaning. Genius steers wildly astray if the compass-box of judgment is wanting. My remark was a general one"—seeing her grave look. "Holmes is one of the gifted of the earth; and when I lamented his choice of a profession, I did not censure him, but the public. He ought to have a nabob's fortune to perfect his schemes; and he will not make a living. Men squander thousands for the intellectual gratification of a horse-race; an exhibition in which, I allow, the brute is generally the nobler animal;—and knowingly brand him 'a verdant 'un,' who expends a quarter of that sum in works of art. Will you dance? I hear a violin."

"I think not. It is too warm."

"To say nothing of the crowd. In dancing, as in most things, I prefer standing upon my own footing—not upon other people's toes."

Nevertheless, there were those present who could not withstand the allurement of a "hop," under any circumstances; and by snug packing on the part of the soberly-inclined, while numbers sought the freer air of the passages and piazzas, room was made for a set. Ellen Morris joined it, and Mr. Holmes had time to look about him. His start of delight as he recognised Charley, and the heartiness of their greetings, showed their mutual attachment; and imagining that they would have much to say after a lengthy separation, Ida would have fallen in the rear, had not Charley forestalled her by a prompt presentation of his friend. They exchanged, indeed, one or two brief questions and replies; but these over, she was the centre of attraction. The panting, heated dancers tripped by, commiserating, if they noticed the "hum-drum" group at the window; never thinking that, demure as they appeared, there was more enjoyment in that secluded recess, than in the entire mass of revellers besides. There are harmonies in conversation, the arrangement of which is wofully disregarded. Accident had collected a rare trio. The artist talked as he would have painted; descrying beauties everywhere, and bringing them together with a masterly hand; only tolerating deformity, as it displayed them to more advantage, and shedding over all the mellow glow of his fervid imagination; startling by paradoxes, to enchant by the grace and beauty of their reconciliation. And Charley, with a cooler brain and wary eye, was ready to temper, not damp his enthusiasm;—not to dam the rushing flood, but lead it aside into a smoother channel. Ida thought of the compass-box, and charmed as she was by the eloquence of this modern Raphael, acknowledged the justice of the simile. For herself, appreciative and suggestive, she fanned the flame. Her sympathetic glance and smile, the quick catching at a thought, half unuttered; the finish and polish his crude ideas received from her lighter hand, could not but please and flatter. How grating was the interruption!—

"Mr. Dana! not dancing!"

"No, Mr. Truman, but exceedingly well entertained."

"Hav'nt a doubt of it! hav'nt a doubt! but there's a young lady—a stranger—who wants a partner for the set that is forming, and as your brother is engaged—to dance, I mean—with Miss Somebody—I forget who—I thought as an old friend, I would make so free as to call upon you, ah—ah—she being a stranger, you understand, ah—ah—"

"Certainly sir, of course, where is she?" said Charley, swallowing his chagrin, in his willingness to oblige the embarrassed host. "Charles Dana, having gone to see his partner, desires the prayers of the congregation," he said aside to his companions, before plunging into the throng.

"'O, rare Ben Jonson!'" said Mr. Holmes, as they disappeared.

"And most incomprehensible of anomalies!" responded Ida.

"The dross is upon the surface—refined gold beneath. Have you known him long?"

"But a fortnight."

"You have not mastered the alphabet yet. Bright and dancing as is that eye, I have seen it shed tears in abundance and softness, like a woman's. His tongue knows other language than that of flippant trifling."

"He is a universal favorite. I am surprised he has never married."

Mr. Holmes was silent. He even looked pained; and Ida, conscious that she had unwittingly touched a sore spot, took up the strain Mr. Truman had broken. She was in the Coliseum of Rome; when among the moving sea of faces precipitated upon the retina, yet nothing to the brain, unless, perhaps, making more vivid its conceptions of the multitude, who once lined the crumbling walls of the amphitheatre—one arrested her attention. The subject was thrilling; the speaker's description graphic and earnest;—it was unkind, and ungrateful, and disrespectful—but laugh she must, and did, when in Charley's partner she beheld Celestia Pratt! Her first emotion was extreme amusement; her next, indignant compassion for him thrust into public notice as the cavalier of a tawdry fright; for the thickest of satin robes, and a load of jewelry, that gave plausibility to the tale of Hannibal's spoils at Cannæ, betrayed, instead of cloaking vulgarity. He was playing the agreeable, however, with, his wonted sang-froid, varied, as she judged from his gestures, by gratuitous hints as to the figure and step. In trying to efface the remembrance of her rudeness from Mr. Holmes' mind, and watching the oddly matched pair, she passed the time until the set was finished. Arthur approached, and the gleam of his white teeth upset her acquired gravity.

"Caught," said he, as Mr. Holmes walked away, "just as I was. I secured a partner directly I saw her; and Mr. Truman, hearing from her that I was an acquaintance, put at me two minutes later."

"He said you were engaged—to dance."

"Here he is! Charley, I thought you declined dancing."

"So I did. I consented to please Mr. Truman."

"Had you ever seen your partner before?"

"No. I know what you are at, Art., but I cannot laugh with you. I am sorry for her."

"You shame us, Mr. Dana," said Ida, frankly. "I will make amends for my uncharitableness, by fighting my way, single-handed, to the farthest end of the room, to speak to her, if you say so."

"And I, not to be outdone, will dance with her," said Arthur, with a martyr-air.

"I absolve you," said his brother. "She is a queer fish, I own," in his light tone. "Have you spoken to Holmes?"

"Yes. He says he has partly resolved to winter in Richmond. He is a groomsman; but the party disband to-morrow; only Miss Morris attending the young couple to their home up the country. I have invited Lynn to spend some time with us, before he settles to business."

"Will he come?"

"Probably."

A succession of introductions and beaux engaged Ida until supper. She forgot her purpose of speaking with Celestia, and would not have remembered her again that evening, had she not been made aware of her proximity at table by something between a grunt and exclamation, forced through a mouthful of cake.

"Lor! if that ain't Idy Ross!"

She had a saucer of ice-cream in one hand, and a slice of fruitcake in her left; so she stuck out a red elbow in lieu of either; which unique salutation Ida pretended not to see.

"How are you, Celestia? When did you come into the neighbourhood?"

"I jest got down yesterday. You see," in a stage whisper, "I heard of this party better'n a fortnight ago, and ma and I set our hearts 'pon my coming; so I had this dress made (it cost four dollars a yard!) and happened, you know, to pay a visit to Cousin Lucindy Martin's, jest in the nick of time, and Mrs. Truman, found out, you know, that I was there, and sent me a 'bid.' Didn't I manage it nice?"

"You appear to be having a pleasant time."

"O, splendid! I've danced every set. Thar's a heap of polite beaux—ain't there?"

"Miss Ross, what shall I have the pleasure of helping you to?" asked Mr. Euston, Ida's escort.

She named an article, and Celestia twitched her arm—"Who's that?"

"Mr. Euston," said Ida, distinctly.

"Is he your beau?"

"No."

"Then you'd as lief as not interduce me, hadn't you? He's the loveliest thing I ever saw."

Ida flushed with disgust and vexation; the insufferable conceit of the girl, her bizarre appearance, and harsh tones drew the notice of many to them; and her horror of ridicule was strong upon her.

"Miss Ida," said Charles Dana, across the table. "Will you eat a philopoena with me?" As he tossed the almond, she marked his expression, and the scene in the painting-room, Josephine's derision, and the rude mirth of her supporters, her hurricane of rage and the commanding look that said to it "Be still," all rushed over her like a whirlwind, and departed suddenly. Mr. Euston was bowing with the desired delicacy; Celestia, serenely expectant, and with the mien of one who confers a favour upon both parties, she complied with the fair lady's request. Mr. Euston was handsome and gallant; he immediately dipped into his stock of pretty sayings, and presented one of the most elegant. The recipient fluttered and prinked, and baited another hook; and Ida stole a look at Charley. Her not recognizing him before was no marvel; she could hardly persuade herself that her conviction of a minute before was not an illusion; so impervious was the Momus mask. He was frequently near, and with her, in the course of the evening: but no sign betokened a suspicion of her perplexity. He was gayer than his wont; when sheer fatigue drove the votaries of pleasure from the festive hall, his spirits were at their meridian. He had passed most of the day on horseback; had talked and danced and stood for six hours; yet he sent off carriage after carriage with a lively adieu; and seeing his own party seated in theirs, vaulted into the saddle, as for a morning gallop. He cheered the weary travellers so long as he could extort replies from the lagging tongues, and serenaded them the rest of the way with snatches of melody fantastic as his mood.

"Why have you and Charley preserved such a mysterious silence respecting our former meeting?" inquired Ida, when she and Carry were laid down to sleep.

"He charged me not to name him, if I heard the matter alluded to; and, since we have been at home, enjoined secrecy more strictly, saying the incident was better forgotten than remembered," said Carry, dozingly.

This was Thursday. On Saturday the young artist made one in their midst. In his school-days he was a welcome guest at Poplar-grove, spending a portion of his vacation with his friend Charley, and the lapse of years had not rusted the hinges of the hospitable doors, or those of the master's heart. He was received and cherished as of old.

Mrs. Dana looked into the girls' room before retiring. Ida was brushing her hair; Carry watching and talking to her. "Yes," said she, complacently, appealing to her sister for confirmation. "I flatter myself our party could not be more select or composed of choicer materials. Four beaux—including father—handsomest of all; and but two belles—three—pardon me, Mrs. Dana. It may be a century ere we are again so blessed; and we must go somewhere, or do something to exhibit ourselves. Ida may have Charley and father, if she will leave the Italian and his lamping eyes to me."

"And Arthur—why is he neglected the division of spoils?" asked Mrs. Dana.

"I make him over to you. Brother John commended you to his care."

"Mammy applied to me for numberless passes, to-night. There is a big meeting at Rocky Mount. The servants will attend en masse, to-morrow; why not follow their example?" said Mrs. Dana, with playful irony.

"We will!" exclaimed Carry, clapping her hands. "I'll ask father this minute."

"But, my dear sister—"

"Don't say a word, Jenny; Ida would like to go, I am sure."

"When I understand the character of the entertainment; I shall be qualified to express my wishes."

"Why," answered Carry, tying the cord of the wrapper she had cast around her. "They preach a little, and sing and shout; and in intermission, we have grand fun."

"Fun! at church!"

"That is not the word precisely; but everybody meets everybody else, and we have an hour for talking and eating. How happens it, that you are a novice? you are country-born."

"I was never at a big meeting, notwithstanding."

"An additional reason, why we should be on the spot to-morrow. I will be back directly."

In five minutes she returned, blushing and laughing.

"Would you believe it? When I knocked at father's door, Arthur opened it. I slunk back in the dark, and asked for 'Marster.' 'Doctor,' said he, 'Martha wants to see you,' and sauntered off. Didn't father stare, and I laugh, when I ran in! The stupid creature! to be fooled so easily!"

"The meeting!" said Ida.

"All's well! Father was afraid we might be tired, if we stayed to both sermons; but I assured him that was impossible. I hope it will be a fine day!"

She was gratified; but the weather was not brighter than the faces gathered upon the piazza, at a shockingly unfashionable hour. It was six miles to Rocky Mount; and as Charley observed, "seats in the dress circle would be at a premium, two hours before services begun."

"'Marster' does not accompany us," said Arthur, significantly, as he handed Carry into the carriage. She was too much confused to reply; but Ida and Mrs. Dana laughed outright.

"Papa and myself, having no vagrant propensities, will go to our own church," answered the latter. "And if you have waited upon the young ladies, I will thank you to put me into the gig, Dr. Dana."

Mr. Holmes accepted a seat with the ladies; Charley and Arthur were on horseback. It is doubtful if one of the merry riders realised, for an instant, the sacredness of the day, or that they were bound to a place of worship. It did not occur, even to Dr. Carleton, that their glee, innocent and proper upon ordinary occasions, now verged upon sinful levity. He saw in it, the buoyancy of youth under the influence of agreeable company, and a cloudless day. They would be subdued by the exercises of the sanctuary; and he drove along, his large heart full of love and praise to Him who had showered these gem-sparkles into his chalice of life; the young people beguiling the length of their journey, by a running fire of badinage, puns and serio-comic discussions; embarked, to all intents and purposes, upon a party of pleasure.

"Behold Rocky Mount!" said Arthur, pointing to a rising ground, tufted by a clump of oaks.

"Where is the church?" inquired Ida. "I can distinguish people and horses, but no house."

"After we get there, I will lend you my pocket microscope," responded Charley. The brown walls of a small building, in the centre of the grove, were visible, as the road wound around the hill; but its dimensions were as great a puzzle as its absence would have been. Carry came to her aid.

"They preach out of doors, my dear."

"Out of doors!" this was a charming novelty.

"'The groves were God's first temples,'" she repeated softly, and Lynn continued the noble lines—

"Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore,
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised?"

Charley smiled dubiously, but held his peace. The crowd thickened with their advance. Horses were tethered in solid ranks to the trees; children straying frightfully near to their heels; wagons and carriages almost piled upon each other; and men, white and black, stood about everywhere. The driver reined up, twenty yards from the arbor erected under the trees.

"Drive up nearer, Tom!" said Carry.

"He cannot," replied Arthur, letting down the steps. "Look!"

There was a quadruple row of vehicles on three sides of the arbor, the fourth being, at considerable pains, left open for passage. Several young men dashed to the side of the carriage, with as much empressment as at a ball, and thus numerously attended, the girls picked their way through the throng and dust. No gentlemen were, as yet, in their seats, and our party secured a vacant bench midway to the pulpit.

"Don't sit next to the aisle," whispered Arthur.

"Why not?" questioned Ida, removing to the other extremity of the plank.

"Oh! it is more comfortable here. We will be with you again presently."

"That is not all the reason," remarked Carry, when he was gone. "This railing protects us from the press on this side; and our young gentleman will not permit any one to occupy the stand without, but themselves."

"Will they not sit down?"

"No, indeed! there will not be room. Then the aisles will be filled with all sorts of people, and our dresses be liable to damage from boots and tobacco juice."

"Tobacco juice!" was she in a barbarous country! As Carry predicted, their three attendants worked their way, between the wheels and the people, to where they sat. Charley crawled under the rail, and planted himself behind them.

"I can keep my position until some pretty girl dislodges me," said he. "The denizens of these parts have not forgotten how to stare."

He might well say so. A battery of eyes was levelled upon them, wherever they looked. The tasteful dress and elegant appearance of the ladies, and their attractive suite, were subjects of special importance to the community at large. Although eclipsed in show by some present, theirs was a new constellation, and they must support observation as they could. They stood fire bravely; Ida was most unaccustomed to it, and she found so much to interest and divert her, that she became unconscious of the annoyance after a little.

"Are those seats reserved for distinguished strangers? have not we a right to them?" designating a tier in front of the speaker's stand.

"They are the anxious benches," returned Charley.

"Nonsense!"

"So I think. The brethren dissent from us. I am not quizzing. That is the name."

"The mourners—the convicted occupy them," said Carry.

"Are they here?" inquired Ida, credulously. It was preposterous to conceive such a possibility in this frivolous loud-talking assembly.

"Not now;" answered Charley. "But when they crowd on the steam, you will witness scores."

"Fie! Charley? it is wicked to speak so!"

"I am just as pious as if I did not, Carry. I'll wager my horse—and head too—that by to-night, Miss Ida will agree with me, that these religious frolics are more hurtful to the cause they are intended to advance, than fifty such harmless affairs, as we attended on Thursday night."

"I am not solemnised yet;" said Ida.

"You are as solemn as you are going to be. You may be excited, or frightened into something like gravity. Two, three, four preachers! That's what I call a waste of the raw material. What a flutter of ribbons and fans! The congregation reminds me of a clover field, with the butterflies hovering over its gaily-colored, bobbing heads. Handsome ladies by dozens! This county is famed for its beauty, and but one tolerable-looking man in its length and breadth!"

"Why, there is Mr. Euston—what fault have you to find in him?"

"He is the honorable exception. Whom did you think I meant?" smiling mischievously at Carry's unguarded query. "Art. here, is passable. Modesty prevents my saying more, as we are daily mistaken for each other. The music strikes up;—rather quavering; they are not in the 'spirit' yet. They never get to the 'understanding.' I must decamp. Those fair ones are too bashful to look this way, while I am here."

He was on the outside of the rail, sedate and deacon-like, in a minute. Unsuited as his remarks were to the time and place, they were less objectionable than the whispers of the ladies who dispossessed him;—critiques upon Susan's beaux and Joseph's sweethearts; upon faces, dress and deportment; a quantity of reprobation, and very sparse praises.

The preacher was an unremarkable man, who delivered, in a sing-song tone, an unremarkable discourse; opposing no impediment to the sociability of the aforementioned damsels, except that they lowered their shrill staccato to a piano. The gentlemen whispered behind their hats, notched switches, and whittled sticks. The hearers from Poplar-grove, albeit they were gay, youthful, and non-professors, were the most decorous auditors in their part of the congregation. Another minister arose; a man not yet in his thirtieth year, his form stooped, as beneath the weight of sixty winters. The crowd stilled instantly. He leaned, as for support, upon the primitive desk; his attenuated hands clasped, his eyes moving slowly in their cavernous recesses, over the vast assemblage. "And what come ye out into the wilderness for to see?" he said, in a voice of preternatural sweetness and strength. "Aye! ye are come as to a holiday pageant, bedecked in tinsel and costly raiment. I see before me the pride of beauty and youth; the middle-aged, in the strength of manliness and honor, the hoary hairs and decrepid limbs of age;—all trampling—hustling each other in your haste—in one beaten road—the way to death and judgment! Oh! fools and blind! slow-worms, battening upon the damps and filth of this vile earth! hugging your muck rakes while the glorious One proffers you the crown of Life!" The bent figure straightened; the thin hands were endowed with a language of power, as they pointed, and shook, and glanced through the air. His clarion tones thrilled upon every ear, their alarms and threatenings and denunciations; in crashing peals, the awful names of the Most High, and His condemnations of the wicked, descended among the throng; and those fearful eyes were fiery and wrathful. At the climax he stopped;—with arms still upraised, and the words of woe and doom yet upon his lips, he sank upon the arm of a brother beside him, and was led to his seat, ghastly as a corpse, and nearly as helpless.

A female voice began a hymn.

"This is the field, the world below,—
Where wheat and tares together grow;
Jesus, ere long will weed the crop,
And pluck the tares in anger up."

The hills, for miles around, reverberated the bursting chorus,

"For soon the reaping time will come,
And angels shout the harvest home!"

The ministers came down from the stand, and distributed themselves among the people; bowed heads and shaking forms marking their path;—a woman from the most remote quarter of the throng, rushed up to the mourner's seats, and flung herself upon her knees with a piercing cry;—another and another;—some weeping aloud; some in tearless distress;—numbers knelt where they had sat;—and louder and louder, like the final trump, and the shout of the resurrection morn, arose the surge of song;—

"For soon the reaping time will come
And angels shout the harvest home!"

Carry trembled and shrank; and Ida's firmer nerves were quivering. A lull in the storm, and a man knelt in the aisle, to implore "mercy and pardon for a dying sinner, who would not try to avert the wrath to come."

Sonorous accents went on with his weeping petition;—praying for "the hardened, thoughtless transgressors—those who had neither part nor lot in this matter; who stood afar off, despising and reckless." Again rolled out a chorus; speaking now of joyful assurance.

"Jesus my all to heaven has gone—
(When we get to heaven we will part no more,)
He whom I fix my hopes upon—
When we get to heaven we will part no more.
Oh! Fare-you-well! oh! fare-you-well!
When we get to heaven we will part no more,
Oh! Fare-you-well!"

Ida's eyes brimmed, and Carry sobbed with over-wrought feeling. Arthur bent over the railing and spoke to the latter. He looked troubled,—but for her: Lynn stood against one of the pillars which supported the roof; arms crossed, and a redder mantling of his dark cheek; Charley was cool and grave, taking in the scene in all its parts, with no sympathy with any of the phases of emotion. The tumult increased; shouted thankgivings, and wails of despair; singing and praying and exhorting, clashing in wild confusion.

"You had best not stay here," said Arthur to Carry, whose struggles for composure he could not bear to see.

"Suffer me to pass, Dr. Dana;" and a venerable minister stooped towards the weeping girl. "My daughter, why do you remain here, so far from those who can do you good? You are distressed on account of sin; are you ashamed to have it known? Do you not desire the prayer of Christians? I will not affirm that you cannot be saved anywhere; 'the arm of the Lord is not shortened,' but I do warn you, that if you hang back in pride or stubbornness, you will be lost; and these only can detain you after what you have heard. Arise, and join that company of weeping mourners, it may not be too late."

Carry shook her head.

"Then kneel where you are, and I will pray for you."

She dried her tears. "Why should I kneel, Mr. Manly? I do not experience any sorrow for sin."

"My child!"

"My tears are not those of penitence; I do not weep for my sinfulness; I can neither think nor feel in this confusion."

The good man was fairly stumbled by this avowal.

"Have you no interest in this subject?"

"Not more than usual, sir. My agitation proceeded from animal excitement."

"I am fearful it is the same in a majority of instances, Mr. Manly;" said Arthur, respectfully.

"You my perceive your error one day, my son; let me entreat you to consider this matter as binding up your eternal welfare; and caution you not to lay a feather in the way of those who may be seeking their salvation."

Arthur bowed silently; and the minister passed on.

Dr. Carleton retired early that evening with a headache. Mrs. Dana was getting the children to sleep; the young people had the parlor to themselves. Charley was at the piano, fingering over sacred airs; psalm tunes, sung by the Covenanters, in their craggy temples, or murmuring to an impromptu accompaniment, a chant or doxology. All at once he struck the chords boldly, and added the full powers of the instrument to his voice, in the fine old melody of Brattle Street. Lynn ceased his walk through the room, and united his rich bass at the second line; Arthur, a tenor; Carry and Ida were happy to be permitted to listen—

"While Thee I seek, protecting Power,
Be my vain wishes stilled;
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed,
To thee my thoughts would soar;
Thy mercy o'er my life has poured,
That mercy I adore.

In each event of life how clear
Thy ruling hand I see!
Each mercy to my soul most dear.
Because conferred by Thee.

In every joy that crowns my days,
In every pain I bear,
My heart shall find delight in praise,
Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill;
Resigned—when storms of sorrow lower,
My soul shall meet Thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear,
The gathering storm shall see;
My steadfast heart shall know no fear,
That heart will rest on Thee!"

"There!" said Charley, "there is more religion in that hymn than in all the fustian we have heard to-day; sermons, prayers and exhortations. Humbug in worldly concerns is despicable; in the church, it is unbearable."

"Consider, Charley, that hundred of pious people believe in the practices you condemn. Some of the best Christians I know were converted at these noisy revivals," said Carry.

"It would be miraculous if there were not a grain or two of wheat in this pile of chaff. I never attend one that I am not the worse for it. It is a regular annealing furnace; when the heat subsides you can neither soften or bend the heart again—the iron is steel. What does Miss Ida say?"

"That sin is no more hateful, or religion more alluring, for this Sabbath's lessons; still, I acquiesce in Carry's belief, that although mistaken in their zeal, these seeming fanatics are sincere."

"You applaud enthusiasm upon other subjects, why not in religion?" asked Lynn, "if any thing, it is everything. If I could believe that, when the stormy sea of life is passed, heaven—an eternal noon-tide of love and blessedness would be mine—a lifetime would be too short, mortal language too feeble to express my transport. There is a void in the soul which nought but this can satisfy. Life is fresh to us now; but from the time of Solomon to the present, the worlding has nauseated at the polluted spring, saying, 'For all his days are sorrow, and his travail grief; yea, his heart taketh not rest in the night.' I envy—not carp at the joys of those whose faith, piercing through the fogs of this lower earth, reads the sure promise—'It is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.'"

"You do homage to the beauty of the Faith, by whomsoever professed. I note its practical effects; judge of its genuineness by its workings. For example, the Old Harry awoke mightily within me, in intermission, to see Dick Rogers preaching to Carry, threatening her with perdition—she, who never in her life, committed a tenth of the sin he is guilty of every day. He has been drunk three times in the last month; he is a walking demijohn; his hypocrisy a shame to his grey hairs. And James Mather—he would sell his soul for a fourpence, and call it clear gain. Sooner than lose a crop, he forces his negroes to work on Sunday—can't trust the God of harvest, even upon His own day. The poor hands are driven on week-days as no decent man would do a mule;—he let his widowed sister go to the poor-house, and offered to lend John five thousand dollars, the next week at eight per cent. I have known him since I was a shaver, and never had a word from him upon the 'one thing needful,' except at church. And he was in the altar, this morning, shouting as though the Lord were deaf!"

"Charley! Charley!"

"Facts are obstinate things, Carry. Next to being hypocritical ourselves, is winking at it in others. The church keeps these men in her bosom; she must not complain, if she shares in the odium they merit. They are emphatically sounding brass."

"Let them grow together until the harvest," said Arthur. "It is a convincing proof of the truth of Religion, that there are careful counterfeits."

"I do not impeach the 'truth of Religion.' You need not speak so reproachfully, Arthur. I believe in the Christianity of the Scriptures. What I assail, is intermittent piety; springs, whose channels are dusty, save at particular seasons;—camp-meetings and the like; men, who furbish up their religion, along with their go-to-meeting boots, and wear it no longer. Their brethren despise them as I do; but their mouths are shut, lest they 'bring disgrace upon their profession.' It can have no fouler disgrace than their lives afford. I speak what others conceal; when one of these whited sepulchres lifts his Bible to break my head, for a graceless reprobate, I pelt him with pebbles from the clear brook. Look at old Thistleton! a mongrel,—porcupine and bull-dog;—pricking and snarling from morning 'till night. A Christian is a gentleman; he is a surly growler. Half of the church hate, the other half dread him; yet he sits on Sabbaths, in the high places of the synagogues, leads prayer-meetings, and weeps over sinners—sanctified 'brother Thistleton.' He thunders the law at me; and I knock him down with a stout stick, St. John cuts ready to my hand;—'If a man say, I love God, and hate his brother, he is a liar!' I hush up Rogers, with—'No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom;' and Mather, with, 'You cannot serve God and Mammon.' They say I am a scoffer;—I don't care. Now"—continued this contrary being, passing into a tone of reverent feeling;—"There is my kind guardian. I don't believe he ever shouted, or made a public address in his life. He lives his religion; a child can perceive that the Bible is a 'lamp to his feet;' a pillar of cloud in prosperity; a sun in adversity. I saw it when a boy, and it did me more good than the preached sermons I have listened to since. He called me into his study the night before I left home, and gave me a copy of 'the book.' 'Charley, my son,' said he, 'you are venturing upon untried seas; here is the Chart, to which I have trusted for twenty years; and have never been led by it, upon a quicksand. Look to it, my boy!' I have read it, more, because he asked it, than for its intrinsic value; that is my failing, not his. I have waded through sloughs of theories and objections; but hold to it still. Especially, when I am here, and kneel in my old place at the family altar; hear the solemn tones, that quieted my boyish gayety; when I witness his irreproachable, useful life, I say, 'His chart is true; would I were guided by it!' No—no—Art.! I may be careless and sinful;—I am no skeptic."

"A skeptic" exclaimed Lynn. "There never was one! Voltaire was a fiend incarnate; a devil, who 'believed and trembled,' in spite of his hardihood; Paine, a brute, who, inconvenienced by a soul, which would not sink as low as his passions commanded, tried to show that he had none, as the easiest method of disembarrassing himself. That one of God's creatures, who can look up to the glories of a night like this, or see the sun rise to-morrow morning, and peep, in his insect voice, a denial of Him who made the world, is demon or beast;—often both. 'Call no man happy 'till he dies.' Atheists have gone to the stake for their opinions; but physical courage or the heat of fanaticism, not the belief, sustained them. We have yet to hear of the infidel, who died in his bed,

'As one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.'"

"It is a mystery that one can die tranquilly," said Carry.

"I have stood by many peaceful death-beds," returned Arthur. "I never wish so ardently for an interest in the Redemption, as when I watch the departure of a saint. One verse is in my mind for days afterwards. I repeat it aloud as I ride alone; and it lingers in my last waking thought at night:

'Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are;
While on his breast, I lean my head,
And breathe my life out sweetly there.'

"And why do you not encourage these feelings?" asked Charley, bluntly. "I call that conviction; a different thing from the burly of this morning. You want to be a Christian;—so do I sometimes; but you are a more hopeful subject."

"I am by no means certain of that. You would never abide with the half-decided, so long as I have done. You are one of the 'violent,' who would take the kingdom of Heaven by force."

"How strange!" said Charley, thoughtfully.

"What is strange?" inquired his brother.

"Here are five of us, as well-assured of the verity of Christianity, and God's revealed Word, as of our own existence; the ladies, practising every Christian virtue; Lynn, prepared to break a lance with infidelity in any shape; you, like Agrippa, almost persuaded; and I, stripping off the borrowed plumage of those who have a name to live;—yet we will be content to close our eyes in sleep, uncertain of re-opening them in life;—unfit for Death and Eternity!"

He turned again to the piano; Arthur quitted the room; Lynn gazed out of the window, with working features; Carry shaded her eyes with her hand; Ida felt a cold awe creeping over her. 'Death and Eternity!' had she heard the words before? how out of place in the bright warm life they were leading! Here were true friendships, tried and strengthened by years; young love, joying in his flowery course; refined and congenial spirits; the luxuries of wealth and taste;—how unwelcome the hand that lifted the drapery which enveloped the skeleton! 'Death and Eternity!' The spell was upon the scented air; the moon threw shadows upon the grass, as of newly heaped graves; and the vibrating cords spoke but of the one awful theme!

---

[CHAPTER X.]

"Our last ride—can it be!" said Lynn, when the horses were brought to the gate, early in a September afternoon. Ida smiled faintly. The parting of the morrow, was, to her, the death of a summer's day, to be succeeded by wintry darkness. Not even Carry knew how the prospect oppressed her.

Lynn saw that his remark was injudicious, and endeavoured to atone for it, by the most delicate assiduity of attention. Their liking had matured into an attachment, which might have been predicated upon their consonance of feeling and sentiment. Her calmer judgment gave her the ascendancy, which belonged of right, to the masculine mind; he did not look up—she could not have respected him if he had; but he consulted and appealed to her, as a brother would ask counsel of an elder sister. She learned to imitate Charley, in curbing his impetuosity; and he chafed less at her soft touch upon the rein. No bantering checked the growth of their friendship; they were, for the time, members of one family; Lynn and Charley were no more to the disengaged young lady than Arthur.

Their excursion was to a splendid mansion, fifteen miles from Poplar-grove, lately completed, and not yet occupied by a wealthy landed proprietor, the Croesus of the county. Arthur had seen it, and carried home such a report of its stately grandeur, that a visit was forthwith projected. Nature was in one of her richest autumnal moods.

"She dies, as a queen should—in royal robes,"—said Lynn. "Note the purple haze upon those hills, and the yellow glory that bathes the foreground! I would sacrifice this right arm, could I first transfer that light to canvass. Loveliness like this maddens me with a Tantalus frenzy. To think that it must fade, when it should be immortal! I would have it ever before me."

"It lives in your memory. That is a pleasure, time nor distance diminishes."

"I am not satisfied with this selfish hoarding. A voice is ever urging me on,—'Create! create!' it cries; and while my pencil moves, I am a creator; exulting in the pictures graven upon my soul, as no parent ever joyed over a beloved child. 'They are mine—mine!' I repeat in an ecstacy. I have wept above—almost worshipped them! Then comes the chill, grey light of critical reason, as when you awake at morning, and see things as they are: the soul-pictures are beauteous still:—my copy the veriest daub!"

"The keenness of your disappointment is an augury of success. The lithography is perfect—you must not despond at the failure of one proof-impression. Your mortification is a greater triumph than the complacency with which a mediocre genius surveys his work."

"You remember Sheridan's maiden speech," said Charley.

"I have read of Demosthenes'," replied Lynn.

"Sheridan's was a similar case. He was hooted at for his presumption; his first and second attempts were wretched: and his friends advised him to retire from the rostrum forever. 'Never!' said he, striking his breast. 'It is here, and shall come out!'"

"A glorious 'coming out' it was!" responded Ida. "What do you say now?"—to Lynn.

"That it is here!" returning her bright look. "Was ever man more blessed in his friends? More fortunate than Adam, I take my guardian angels with me, from the Paradise I leave to-morrow."

"You must array one in a less questionable shape, if you would have men admit his angelic relationship," said Charley, with a grimace. "What are you looking at?"

Lynn did not reply. They were upon a hill; and some object in the valley beneath fastened his gaze. The pensive cast of his features bordered upon gloom, as they neared it. Ida saw only a graceful knoll, bounded, except towards the west, by a chain of more imposing eminences. A monarch oak stood in isolated sovereignty upon its summit; it had shaded a dwelling, for one chimney yet remained; and the sickly herbage of the slope was not the produce of a virgin soil. Lynn stopped. Not a word was spoken, his eyes were too full of tender sadness; the man—not the artist, looked from them.

"A lonely tree, and a desolate hearth-stone!" muttered he. "It is prophetic!"

"Is the spot known to you?" asked Ida, gently, as they rode on.

"It was my birth-place."

"I had forgotten;" said Charley. "You were very young when you left it."

"But I remember it. I could point out to you the very place where my mother taught me to walk;—a grass-plat before the door:—she upon the step, my father kneeling at a short distance, and each tempting me to undertake the journey from one to the other. They are gone! parents, brother, sisters! there is but one puny scion of a noble line remaining!"

Ida turned her face away. The sad story everywhere! Was there justice—there was not mercy—in thus rending away the sweetest comforts man can know,—while avarice, and pride and malevolence rioted in unharmed luxuriance. Earth was a cheat, and happiness a lie!

"This is a fine piece of road," said Charley, "and we are jogging over it, like Quakers going to market. I say! Art.!"

"Well!" answered his brother, who was some yards in advance.

"Don't you think your Rosinante would be benefitted by a taste of the spur?"

Oh! the delight of a sweeping gallop in the open country! the elate consciousness of strength and liberty, as the magnificent animal beneath you exerts every thew and sinew in obedience to your voice and hand; you and he together forming one resistless power, free as the rushing air—able to overleap or bear down any obstacle! The jocund tones wafted back by the breeze attested the efficacy of Charley's prescription.

"That bend hides 'the Castle;'" called out Arthur.

"I will be the first to see it!" exclaimed Carry, and as the turning was gained, she raised herself from the saddle. It was an unguarded moment;—the horse circled the bend in a run; and she was thrown directly in the road of the trampling hoofs behind. Charley's horse fell back upon his haunches;—there was giant might in the hand that reined him;—an inch nearer, and she was lost! for his fore-feet grazed her shoulder.

"My dearest love!" cried the agitated Arthur, raising her in his arms. "Thank God! you are not killed!"

"I am not hurt, dear Arthur! you are all so frightened! it was very careless in me. Indeed I do not require support—I am not injured in the least!"

"Are you sure?" questioned Ida, anxiously: "or do you say it for our sakes?"

"I was never more free from pain. And I am able and ready to go on!"

"You were her saviour!" Arthur griped his brother's hand, with a trembling lip.

"No thanks! I would not run down a cow or sheep if I could help it."

Arthur's even temper was tried by this speech, and the more, that it wounded Carry.

"Coarse! unfeeling!" thought Ida. She grudged him the eloquent affection of Lynn's glance. "I do not care to go further;" said she, when Carry was reseated.

"What! turn back within sight of the Promised Land?" said Carry. "Do not cause me to feel that I have spoiled your afternoon's pleasure! Oscar and I will not part company again so unceremoniously,—will we, old fellow? Allons!" and she shook the reins gaily. The rest followed with reluctance, and for awhile, very soberly. The thought of what might have been the result of the accident, she treated so lightly, precluded jest, and they would not speak of it seriously. By tacit consent, it was not referred to again. Lynn recovered himself first; he forgot everything but the fair domain they were entering; and his raptures awakened the others to its attractions. The house was a princely pile, rearing its towers from the midst of a finely-wooded park. The architecture was Gothic, and perfect in all its parts, even to the stained windows, imported, at an immense expense, from abroad. A village at the base of the hill, was peopled by the negroes, of whom there were more than an hundred connected with the plantation. The equestrians rode up the single street. Good humour and neatness characterised the simple inhabitants; children drew to one side of the road, with smiles and courtesies; the aged raised their bleared eyes, to reply to the respectful salutations of the young riders; through the open doors were seen clean, comfortably-furnished rooms;—in most, the tables were spread for the evening meal, and the busy housewives preparing for their husband's return from field or forest.

"These are thy down-trodden children, O Africa!" said Ida, sarcastically.

Lynn fired up. "They are the happiest beings upon the globe."

"So far as animal wants are concerned," subjoined Arthur.

"I do not accept of that clause. They are happy! They have a kind and generous master; every comfort in health; good nursing when ill; their church and Bible, and their Saviour, who is also ours. What the race may become, I do not pretend to say. These are far in advance of the original stock; but their intellectual appetite is dull, and I dare affirm that in nine cases out of ten it is satisfied. I never knew a master who denied his servants permission to read, and many have them taught by their own children. The slave lies down at night, every want supplied, his family as well cared for as himself; not a thought of to-morrow! he is secure of a home and maintenance, without disturbing himself as to the manner in which it is to be obtained. Can the same be said of the menial classes in any other country under the sun?"

"American as ever!" smiled Carry.

"And Virginian as ever! The Old Dominion is my mother! he is not a loyal son who does not prefer her, with her infirmities and foibles, to a dozen of the modern 'fast' belle states. The dear old creature has a wrinkle or two that do not improve her comeliness, and adheres somewhat pertinaciously to certain obsolete ideas, but Heaven bless her! the heart is right and sound!"

Ida's eyes sparkled—

"'Where is the coward would not dare
To die for such a land!'

Is not this scenery English, Mr. Holmes? We seldom see so large a tract, under as high cultivation, in this quarter of the globe; and where will we find another palace and park like that?"

"Mr. Clinton intends to stock the park with deer," said Arthur. "That will bring before you yet more vividly the 'Homes of Merry England.'"

"If an English landscape, it is an Italian light that gilds it," replied Lynn. "The highlands upon the other side of the river are Scottish; and the tropical growth of the tobacco fields would not be out of place under the Equator."

"Shocking your gleanings, then, you return to what Charley calls 'the original proposition,' and pronounce it American scenery," concluded Arthur.

"Precisely. One need not go abroad in quest of natural beauties. The fairest are culled for his native land."

"What a romantic creek! that is English!" exclaimed Ida. "I have G. P. R. James for authority; a rocky ford; a steep bank on either side; tangled undergrowth—and actually, a rustic foot-bridge! Oh! for the solitary horseman!"

"There he is!" ejaculated Charley, and from the hazel-boughs emerged an old negro, mounted upon a shaggy donkey, a bag of corn behind him.

"There is but a step, etc.," said Ida, despairingly. "It is my fate always to take it."

With a hearty laugh, they wheeled their horses. Charley and Ida had the lead. Exhilarated by exercise and the scenes through which they had passed, and accustomed to chat familiarly with him, she ran on for some time without remarking that she received monosyllabic replies.

"You are tired," she observed.

"Not at all."

"Out of humor, then?"

"Do I look so?"

"Not when you smile; but you are not making yourself agreeable."

"I did not know that I had ever succeeded in doing so."

"What! when Mr. Holmes says you are the only man who is never otherwise!"

"He is partial. You can teach him better."

"The intimacy between you two mystifies me more and more. He is all fire and impulse; you—"

"A galvanised icicle! Do I freeze you!"

"No. That is most wonderful of all. I am not afraid of you—although I have a cowardly horror of being laughed at."

"A 'horror' you should overcome; it proceeds from vanity. Like most of us, you are not apt to do or say things which you consider particularly silly; and are offended that the public sees them in that light. Lynn is afflicted similarly, in a still greater degree. It will get him into trouble yet."

"He is too independent to vacillate on account of ridicule," said Ida.

"Men style the peevish resentment such dispositions exhibit, 'honor,'" returned Charley, with a half bitter emphasis. "It is one of the million misnomers with which they deceive themselves."

"Among the number I may place my mistaking conceit for sensibility?"

"And concealment of one's feelings for insensibility," he added.

"You misunderstood me, Mr. Dana. I do not think you have a heart of adamant—"

"But that I have none," he interrupted; his kind glance blunting the edge of his words. "We shall understand each other better by and by. You spoke of James a while ago; do you like him?"

"No. He has two defects which spoil everything he writes, at least to me—verbosity and affectation."

"Not to mention self-plagiarism; but that is a common fault. When an author has exhausted his capital, he had better suspend honorably and wait until he has funds in hands to recommence operations, than drag on, 'shinning it,' in mercantile phrase, until the reading world dishonors his notes. Instead of this, James, and a score more of our popular writers are palming off upon us, duplicates and re-duplicates of their earliest productions. We encounter continually some old acquaintance in a different attire, and under an 'alias.' Warmed-over dinners are good enough in their place, but when we pay the same price, we have a right to be dainty. Dickens, himself, is not free from this charge."

"Oh! do not say so! I will not hear a word against him. He says much that seems irrelevant, and occasionally a thing that is provokingly absurd; but it is grand to see how, in the dénouement, he catches up these floating, apparently useless threads, and weaves them into the fabric. He works with less waste than any light author of the day; all is smooth and firm; no ragged edges or dropped stitches. And if his charming creations are set before us more than once, they can well bear a renewal of acquaintanceship."

"But not in a disguise which is less becoming than the dress in which we first knew them. When we cry 'encore,' we ask for a repetition, not an imitation—too often a burlesque."

"But," persisted Ida, warm in defence of her favorite Boz, "where shall we discover new phases of human nature? The fault is that so many men are copies of others; we must not censure the painter for lack of originality, who writes above his sketches, 'taken from life.' Who ever reads a new love story? and love is not the only passion which is the same the world over."

Charley leaned forward to brush a fly from his horse's ear.

"Are there no peculiarities in your lot?" he inquired.

"Perhaps so," she replied, startled by the home-thrust.

"Your character is not the reflected image of another's; you have never seen one who felt, thought, and acted exactly as you do; or who would have been your prototype, had your outward circumstances been alike. The Great Original is not a servile copyist."

The sun's rim was below the horizon, as they passed Lynn's birth-place; but a parting ray shot through the western gap upon the knoll—the solitary bright spot in the landscape. They went rapidly by; but Ida was grateful that his recollection of it should be linked with that fragrant eve, and gleaming farewell smile.

"It is singular that in our rides we should not have taken this road before," said Charley. "It is, just here, a mere bridle path, but I thought we had scoured the country."

"Did you know Mr. Holmes when he lived there?"

"No. He was fourteen years old when we met at school."

"The homestead is a pitiable wreck," continued Ida. "'A lonely tree and a desolated hearth!' he said. Those mournful words will haunt me."

"His is a sad story. His parents died within a month of each other—one by the hand of violence, the other of a broken heart. He had lost a sister previously; a year later his brother went to sea, and ship nor passengers reached the port. It is now three years since the death of a younger sister, a lovely girl, of consumption. This train of misfortunes hangs upon Lynn's mind and heart. He will have it that he belongs to a doomed race. But for his warm social sympathies, and devotion to his art, the superstition would become a monomania."

"You say his father died by violence; was he murdered?"

"In cold blood."

"Horrible! And the assassin?"

"Walks the earth, an honourable man! The sword of justice has no point for the duellist."

"This heathenish practice is a disgraceful stain upon the escutcheon of our State," said Ida. "The laws are not in fault; popular prejudice does not sustain them."

"If they would make me autocrat for one year I would pledge myself to abolish this system of double murdering," returned he.

"How?"

"Hang the survivor—"

"What naughty words are you saying?" questioned Lynn, from Ida's elbow.

"A slip of the tongue, which Miss Ida would not have noticed, but for your officiousness," answered Charley. "Did I tell you of Art.'s professional call last night? We were awakened by an uproarious hallooing at the gate.

"'Who's there?' hailed Arthur.

"'O doctor! for massy's sake, come to see my old woman! she's dyin'—I'm Jeemes Stiger—make haste—I reckon she's most done dead by this time;' and the poor fellow blubbered out.

"'I'll be there in a minute,' said Art. 'Don't wait.'

"In three minutes and a half his horse's hoofs were clattering down the road, as though Tam O'Shanter's witch were upon the crupper. I had confidence in his skill, and did not doubt he would try whatever could relieve 'Mrs. Jeemes Stiger,' but it was a ticklish case; the entire contents of his saddle-bags could not rescue her from the jaws of death, if he had indeed clamped her. I had resolved to postpone compassion for the bereaved husband, to the morning, and was forgetting everything in a doze, when the trampling of a horse aroused me. I threw up the window. It was Art. in as hot haste as when he set out. 'What is to pay?' said I, as he came in. 'Forgotten any thing—or is the woman dead?'

"'Confound her!'

"I knew he must be pretty 'tall' to say that.

"'Never be a doctor, Charley.'

"'I wont, my dear boy; but what is the matter?'

"Why nothing—just nothing!' beginning to laugh. 'I galloped two miles like a race-rider, and ran into the house, expecting a scene of distress—perhaps of death. 'Mrs. Jeemes' was sitting up, rocking herself back and forth. I felt her pulse and inquired her symptoms.'

"'You see,' stuttered Stiger, 'she's been sort o' poorly and droopy for three weeks, and better. I've been 'lotting to go for you, but thought maybe she mought be able to pick up after awhile. To-night I was so hungry myself that I didn't notice her at supper. She was mighty poking all the evenin', and jest now, she waked me. 'Jeemes,' says she, 'when folks' appetites gives out, they dies—don't they?'

"'Yes, honey,' says I.

"'Then farewell,' says she; 'I'm a-goin'. I wouldn't say nothin' about it at first, but I couldn't die without tellin' you I was a-departin'.'

"'O, Susan!' says I; 'how come you to think you are dyin'.

"'Jeemes,' says she, solemn as could be; 'I couldn't eat no supper, 'cept one herring and a pone of bread, and one cup of coffee.'

"'Doctor! you think she'll live 'till day? Oh! if I had a-gone for you three weeks ago!'"[1]

[1] Fact.

"'When shall we all meet again?'"

said Lynn that night, at the hour for separation.

"At Christmas, probably—next summer, certainly," replied Arthur's cheerful voice.

"We have been too happy together to hope for a repetition of the pleasure," said Ida. "Two such summers would be more than falls to the share of most mortals."

"If we never meet again in this life, we shall see each other somewhere at the end of the turnpike," observed Charley.

Sad as were the feelings of the little company, they smiled at his tone and action.

"Hush, Charley! I am petitioning Ida for a song," said Carry. "One of your own, my dear. We like no other so well. Just one more, that I may fancy I hear whenever I enter this room."

"A parting lay from our Improvisatrice," entreated Dr. Carleton.

Her voice was uncertain and low, but she sang the simple ballad with a pathos, that brought the moisture to the eyes of more than one of her auditors.

"Away with thoughts of sadness, love!
I will be gay to-night!
I would awhile indulge the hopes,
To-morrow's sun will blight.
Oh! once again, our favorite songs,
Together let us sing;
And thus forget the wailing strain
To-morrow's eve will bring.
Away with thoughts of sadness, love!
I must be gay to-night!

"Alas! 'tis vain! we who have loved
So long and well, must part!
The smile has faded from my cheek
The gladness from my heart.
And since at this, our sad farewell,
For months, perchance, for years,
We cannot join in blithesome lay,
Oh! let us mingle tears!
Away with thoughts of gladness, love!
For I must weep to-night!"

---

[CHAPTER XI.]

"I'm very lonely now, Carry! and weary, and wakeful and home-sick. You and your home have spoiled me; my heart has been enlarged, only to aggravate the old empty feeling; you have disabled me for the life I must lead here. 'Discouraged already!' I hear you say. 'Did you not promise to be good and patient?' I am not like you, I cannot love, unless I am beloved; and had I your warm, open heart, it would be but attempting to heat Nova Zembla with a foot-stove. Hear, before you reproach. Our journey was pleasant. The children behaved à merveille; your sister was—as she always is—tender and motherly, (you know what that last means from me!) and the conduct of our gallant outriders was above praise. Leaving Mrs. Dana at her door, Lynn and Charley escorted me up-town. With their 'good nights,' and promises to see me again soon, connection with Poplar-grove was severed. My former self—I told you how it would be!—was waiting for me inside the hall-door. I was as little changed in the eyes of Mr. Read and his daughter, as they were in mine. The first-named was upon his etiquette stilts; and Josephine's fingers, as I touched them, were as limp and warm as the digits of a frozen frog. (Vide Charley.) I remembered you and my promise, and made a tremendous effort. 'You are looking so well, that I will not inquire whether your trip was as delightful as you anticipated;' to the daughter.

"'We spent our time agreeably;' dryly.

"'Were the waters of Saratoga beneficial to you, sir?' to the father.

"'My health required no improvement;' stiffly, and with a smack of offended dignity. But this is wrong, Carry! The air of this house must warp my sense of right. While under their roof, I should not ridicule them. There was pleasure in the sadness of last night—last night! it seems a century since! There is no bright thread in the sombre web I am weaving now! I look forward with a sinking spirit. This winter will bring me trials which you may not appreciate. Josephine and myself will ever remain antagonistic;—not that I am quarrelsome; I detest strife. I am sick of this eternal sparring and heartburning; but I am no dissembler; and I foresee many contests; perhaps as many defeats, for cool audacity is more than a match for hot blood like mine. Our characters will come into play upon a wider stage than heretofore, and should we close in combat there, the struggle will be fearful. I am willing,—thanks to you!—to sacrifice prejudice,—not principle or self-respect. Three long, dreary months before I can hope to see you! I fear to think how wicked I may become in that time. Richmond is, to me, a Sahara, whose single fountain of sweet waters springs up within your sister's home. Those, who, within a few months, were unknown, are nearer than acquaintances of years' standing. Poor Rachel stands by, waiting to undress me, her face as long as mine. 'Ah! Miss Ida! this ain't Dr. Carleton's!' She does not realise how painfully conscious I am of that fact. I can hardly say why I have written this incoherent note; except, that I am dispirited, and thirst to talk to you. Forgive my unhappy egotism! I cannot ask you to respond to emotions which never swell your gentle bosom. To your best of fathers, present my warmest regards. I owe him a debt I cannot repay. And to him, dear Carry, whose image blends with yours, in my dreams of the future; the only man I know, to whom I could willingly resign you, give a sister's love. The strongest proof of my affection is, that I am not jealous. Good night! and a blessing, my dearest! If your rest will be the sweeter for knowing that to another, than him, you make life lovely, believe it!

As ever, yours,
Ida."

"I saw Mr. Lacy upon the street, to-day," remarked Mr. Read, the next evening at supper.

"Ah!" said Josephine, delightedly. "Did you speak with him?"

"Yes; he stopped me to apologise for having delayed calling until this time. He is studying law with Mr. L., and has little leisure for visiting—so he says."

"Did you inquire after his sister's health?"

"No. You had better do so, if he calls this evening. He asked whether you would be at home."

Josephine coloured with pleasure; and Ida was curious to see one who had inspired them with such respect and admiration; for through Mr. Read's assumed carelessness, it was easy to discover that he was flattered by the promised visit. She gathered from their conversation that they had met Mr. Lacy at the Springs, whither he had gone with an invalid sister. As Virginians, they attached themselves to the Read party,—"the party of the season," so Josephine unblushingly asserted.

Too proud to go into the drawing-room, without an invitation, Ida went to her chamber, to spend the hours between supper and bed-time, in reading.

"Miss Josephine must 'spect her beau; she's mightily fined off," commented Rachel, when she came up from her meal. "I said so! that's the door-bell I Ain't you going down, Miss Ida?"

"No;"—not withdrawing her eyes from her book.

"You ain't a school-girl now, Miss Ida," Rachel remonstrated.

"Well—and if I am not?"

"Why, young ladies ought to see company. I can't bear for you to be hiding up here, just like you was an ediot or performed; and Miss Josephine, who ain't nigh so pretty, nor good, for that matter, is stealing all the beaux."

"In other words, my good Rachel, you want me to get married."

"Yes ma'am," said Rachel boldly; "If you come across any body to suit you, I'd a heap rather you'd be his wife, than to stay here to be pecked at and worried."

"I am not easily worried; I am my own mistress, and restrained by no one."

"Your own mistis', Miss Ida! Don't I see you sittin' at table, and in the parlor, never opening your mouth to say nothin'; and ain't you cooped up here in this chamber, because Miss Josephine ain't got politeness enough to ask you down? and after they've been making as much of you at Dr. Carleton's as if you had been the Queen of Sheby! Miss Carry is a lady worth talking about, and so is Miss Jenny—none of your turned up nose, poor white folksy sort. I wish you could get into the fam'ly," she added, slyly.

Ida read on in silence.

"The bell agin!" muttered Rachel, fretfully. "I don't know what they're coming for. If they knowed as much as we servants, they'd as soon jam their fingers into a steel-trap. What do you want?" she said, snappishly to the footman who knocked at the door.

"Two gentlemen to see Miss Ross—Mr. Dana and Mr. Holmes."

"I'll tell her;" she returned, greatly mollified. "Now, Miss Ida, don't scare them off with no solemn looks and talk. Do just like you did at Miss Carry's; and 'bove all things, don't let Miss Josephine cut you out!"

We trust to the reader's good-nature to excuse the unfair use which Rachel made of the back parlor window. The affectionate curiosity that prompted her to "peep at Miss Ida, as she made her manners," was gratified by seeing her receive her visitors with as much affability as if Carry, instead of Miss Read, were present. As Rachel surmised, the latter had a beau; and Ida's hasty survey excited a feeling of surprise. He looked and moved the gentleman; but although he arose with the others, and remained standing, Josephine did not introduce him.

Charley's presence of mind prevented embarrassment.

"I beg pardon, Morton; I thought you knew Miss Ross—-Miss Ida, my friend, Mr. Lacy."

This assumption of the duties of host at a first call would have been inexcusable in most cases. Josephine understood it, as it was meant, as a severe rebuke for her negligence or ill-breeding.

The "my friend," too, nettled her. Mr. Lacy had presented the gentlemen to her when they came in, and had spoken to Charley as an old acquaintance, but what right had this stranger to insinuate, that, as his friend, Ida had a title to her "property?" She almost forgave him, however, when she found that, for the present, he was not disposed to push his advantage. He left her to the most delightful tête-à-tête; turned his back quite upon her, and addressed himself to Ida. She would have pocketed a dozen insults an evening to sit upon the same sofa with Morton Lacy, to read devotion in his speaking eyes, and hear love's music in every cadence of his voice. She was in Elysium—with but one drawback upon her felicity. The group across the room were maliciously unobservant of the tableau—her highborn looking suitor, so lover-like as he bent his proud head to catch the words that melted like honey-dew upon her lips; and herself—with falling lids, as though she feared he might see more in the modest eyes than maiden coyness would have him know—they must notice them, and seeing, Ida must be expiring with envy, and the gentlemen regret, while they envied, that they were too late to compete for the prize. It is not often that the truth is as sweet as the darling fictions we dream to ourselves, and on this occasion, assuredly, the reality would have rendered wormwood palatable in comparison; for the trio of friends were unaffectedly engrossed with each other, and stupidly ignorant of the duett played near them.

"Jenny sent her love to you," said Charley; "she will call shortly. She complains of being tired out with the labor of rectifying the disorders of John's bachelor establishment. She treated us, at tea, to a summary of his domestic economy. Half of the time, he forgot to go to market, and wondered at the want of variety in the fare. The cook was consulted, and hinted at the cause. The ensuing day, he laid in provisions for a week, particularly of such commodities as frugal housewives do not care to have on hand in hot weather. He bought a pair of parlor lamps. 'You wished to surprise me by this handsome present, I suppose,' said Jenny.

"'Why no—I should not have purchased them if the old ones had not been worn out,' said he.

"'Worn out! when we have not had them six months!'

"'Yes!' answered he, positively. 'They would not burn—went out as fast as I lighted them; and worse than that, the new ones have got into the same way. I complained to W——, and he said they were the best he had.'

"'Very odd!' said Jenny, 'unscrewing one of the lamps. Why, Mr. Dana! there is no oil in it! Have they been filled regularly?'

"'Never thought of it once!' exclaimed John, foolishly.

"See how useless marrying makes a man!

"Rather, how comfortless he is without a wife;" responded Ida. "As respects order and management in household matters, I have an idea that you bachelors are not much superior to the Tartars."

"Say on a par with the Hottentots, and you will be nearer the truth;" said Lynn. "Nothing can be well-done that is unnatural. Not one man in a hundred has a talent for housekeeping; some acquire a smattering of the science, and make themselves ridiculous by an offensive display of it. Their wives should rig them in kitchen aprons, set them to rolling out pie-crust, and officiate as their substitutes in the shop, office, or counting-room. There is a loud hue and cry after 'strong-minded women;' who says any thing about weak-minded men?"

"You do not consider that the feebler intellect belongs of necessity, to the feebler body, do you?" asked Charley.

"Not I! Do away with this absurd antipathy to clever women; give them our advantages of education, and they will outshine us mentally, as they do morally. The mind of a woman is a wonderful thing; like the scimetar of Saladin, it cuts through, at a single stroke what our clumsy blades have hacked at in vain. Light, graceful, delicate—it does not lack power because it has beauty."

"It is very pleasant to listen to agreeable speeches, even when we know them to be flattery," said Ida; "I acquit you of insincerity, Mr. Holmes—I perceive that Mr. Dana sides with you—but permit me to say, that I know more of the mental calibre of my sex than either of you. To a certain point, we can rival you successfully—like the hare and tortoise—we run well for a time, and laugh at your plodding; but we have not the taste or ability to bear you company to the goal. As well compare the bounding flight of the lark to the heaven-ward sweep of the eagle. We cannot reason—we are persuaded because we feel that a truth exists—for our lives, we could not tell you why we believe."

"And this is an argument to establish your inferiority!" exclaimed Lynn. "Where is the use of reasoning? I would trust a true woman's intuition in preference to all the systems of logic and induction, the blundering, lumbering brain of man has built. Do not depreciate this angelic faculty, Miss Ida; you hold it in common with higher intelligences."

"Yes!—I doubt if Gabriel bothers his head with syllogisms or logarithms," said Charley. "Two to one—Miss Ida—give up!"

"Men are inconsistent creatures," said she. "They will have it we are their superiors,—exhaust dictionaries and their imaginations to load us with exalted epithets; and behave, as though we were children, to be coaxed with sugar-plums. An angel in theory, the corporeal woman is soundly rated if dinner is late, or a room unswept. We are 'akin to higher intelligences,'—but let one presume to measure lances with a lord of creation in a conflict of minds, and how quickly is she assailed by the hoots of her professed adorers! You will allege that she has stepped out of her sphere. Granted—but according to your belief, she has stooped to your level, and you should be grateful for the grace. Is it so? 'The ladith are divine, tho long ath they don't meddle with thubjects above their comprehenthion;' lisps the dandy whose organs of speech serve to distinguish him from a marmoset;—and wise doctors of law and medicine and divinity, read us homilies upon the modesty, the humility, the submissiveness of the softer sex, and recommend St. Paul to our diligent perusal. We are not cherubim,—nor yet slaves;—not your superiors; and in mind are far from being your equals; but we do hold that we are, or ought to be qualified for your companions; and that your happiness and ours would be enhanced if you would throw sentimental nonsense overboard, and take this practical, every day view of the case."

"Let a lady alone for making her side good!" said Charley. "We'll call it square, and quit—which Lynn will inform you, is a cowardly way of acknowledging ourselves beaten. I never argued with one of you yet, that I was not glad to sneak off in five minutes after the first broadside."

"Their right makes their might;" observed Lynn, gallantly.

"And their invincible obstinacy," returned Charley. "That is not just the word—it is a certain never-give-up-able-ness, vexatiously delightful, which precipitates one into a rage and love, at the same time—he is divided between his disposition to kneel to, and to shoot her!"

"Are you tempted to murder me?" inquired Ida.

"Not at all. It is a peculiarity in the female disposition,—she can't help it—to cry 'scissors' to the last."

"I do not comprehend."

"Did you never hear the 'tailor's wife and scissors?'"

"A story of your own coinage!" asked Lynn.

"No—an authentic narrative. A tailor having amassed a fortune by his trade, cut the shop and removed to the country, to live in dignified leisure. His wife was a bit of a shrew, and apt, as all wives are,—to find out her husband's weak points. One of these was a shame of his former occupation, and she harped upon the jarring string, until the poor wretch was nearly beside himself. Her touch-word, 'scissors,' spoiled his finest bon mots, and embittered his grandest entertainment—it was flame to tow. He stormed and wheedled, threatened and bribed; the obnoxious instrument was constantly brandished before his eyes. They were walking, one day, on the bank of a river, bounding his grounds,—'I have displayed extraordinary taste in the selection of this estate,' remarked he, 'Its owner should have judgment, as well as wealth. You observe the Delta formed by the fork of the river. Its beauty decided me to close the contract.'

"Very probable, my dear,—it reminds one so much of an open pair of scissors!'

"One push—and she was struggling in the water.

"'I will pull you out, if you promise never to say that word again!' halloed the still foaming husband.

"'Scissors!' screeched she, and down she went.

"'Scissors!' as she arose again. The third time, she came to the surface, too far gone to speak—but as the waters closed over her, she threw up her arms, crossing her fore fingers—thus—and disappeared."

Ida laughed—her rich, musical laugh, which awoke strange echoes in those formal rooms. Mr. Read's portrait frowned down from its niche, and Josephine raised her brows with an air of astonishment, which would have been contempt, had she not been upon the amiable at the time. Another started too, but with a different expression. Few who saw Morton Lacy smile, forgot it. It was not a superficial illumination, but a flashing through of an inward light, as might play upon the surface of a gem-bedded stream, could the sun strike upon its concealed wealth.

"We seldom hear a sound like that, in this age of affectation;" said he, to Josephine.

"She will learn better;" she replied. "She is just from her books, and rather eccentric in some of her ways and notions. I rally her daily upon her little oddities, but she is wilful, as spoiled children will be,—and being older, and more clever than myself, out-argues me. The main point of disagreement is that she is fond of liberty of speech and action, declares Die Vernon her beau ideal of a woman, and I am prudish in my reserve."

"Not prudish—feminine!" he answered, emphatically. "Is she a relative?"

"No: a ward of my father's."

"An orphan!" with a remorseful pity, for which Josephine could have blasted Ida as she sat.

"She does not feel her situation so keenly as a sensitive person would. Those are happiest whose wounds heal soonest,—to whom a life-time grief is unknown. I am thankful that Ida's temperament is mercurial—she is spared much suffering;" and her voice trembled admirably, as she lifted her eyes to a portrait above the mantel. Another adroit hit! the base brought out the ring of the genuine metal.

"There are, indeed, losses, which, in an earthly sense, are irreparable, and although I know nothing personally of such a bereavement, I can understand that the shadow of a mother's tomb grows darker and longer, as the child walks on in the path her care would have smoothed."

"Especially to an orphaned girl; each day has wants and exigencies she had not thought of before. Yet who knows the pains of her lot?" said Josephine, sighing.

"'Few are the hearts whence one same touch,
Bids the sweet fountains flow!'"

repeated Mr. Lacy. "Have you learned that song, according to promise?"

"I always keep my promises."

"May I demand the proof that this one was remembered."

The piece in question lay suspiciously near the top of the portfolio, although she protested that she had "only played it over once, and a fortnight ago."

"It is set as a duett; will not your friend sing with you?"

"I don't know;" shaking her head, smilingly. "She is chary of her favors—all good singers are. Perhaps she will not refuse you—ask her, please! It will be such an improvement!"

Thus importuned, Mr. Lacy went up to Ida, and preferred his request.

"Excuse me, sir, I am not familiar with the music;" said she, surprised that Josephine had despatched him upon such an embassy, when her jealousy of Ida's superiority as a vocalist, had been the cause of innumerable slights and petty meannesses from herself and father.

"Now! be obliging, Ida!" she interposed, "you sing at sight better than I do, after a year's practising."

"I am sorry to appear disobliging, Mr. Lacy;" pursued Ida; and she spoke sincerely, as she met his smile; "but you would not thank me for ruining your song."

"Oh! how can you say so!" exclaimed Josephine. "Mr. Dermott called you a second Malibran; or was it Sappho?"

To Mr. Lacy, this was coaxingly playful; but the fiery spot came to Ida's cheek, at words, which had been piped over, and distorted, until malice itself must be weary of repeating them.

"I beg you to consider my refusal as final and positive;" she said, haughtily. Mr. Lacy bowed, with dignity, and returned to Josephine.

"Am I, also, to be refused?" asked Lynn, as Josephine picked out a third song. "You will not suspect me of empty compliments."

"Not for you, will I sing now and here!" said Ida. "Be sure I have my reasons for objecting to give you pleasure."

"Be quiet, Lynn! she means what she says;" interrupted Charley, as his friend persisted. Lynn obeyed, but his black eyes went from the face of the speaker, to Ida's compressed lips, until they darted an angry light upon Josephine, showing that he had an inkling of the truth.

"This is the beginning!" said Ida, as she knelt at her window to gain tranquillity from the cool and stillness of the night. The moon neared the horizon; the roof-tops contrasted brightly with the shade of the street; and one lofty spire pointed a snowy finger upward, the golden trumpet upon its taper extremity silvered by the pale rays. It was a "sweet south" that bore up the lullaby our beautiful river sings nightly to her myriads of sleeping children; but as the girl gazed and listened, inquietude, instead of peace, had possession of her—the nameless longing that makes mortals weep and strive, and die! that burning craving for something—they cannot tell what—except that earth does not bestow it, and the spirit will not rest without it. It may be, angel-teachers are with us, awakening a desire for, rather than imparting knowledge, which is their food, and can alone satisfy our immortal minds—or our young souls are fluttering their unfledged wings, restless for the flight, instinct tells them is before them—we know not—only that the thirst is fierce—maddening! and there is but one fountain which quenches it. The river's song should have summoned up the vision of those living waters, and their wooing, "Let him that is athirst come!" and the white spire—had its silent gesture no significance?

Ida's thoughts did not rise. A painful truth had that night obtruded itself upon her, that the love of those she esteemed most, had not strengthened her to bear the trials incident to her position. With Carry at her side, to defend and console, many a shaft would have fallen harmless, perchance, unremarked; in her absence, the certainty of her affection did not render Josephine's malevolence innocuous, or her society endurable.

"I was not born for this life! I do not breathe in the penthouse in which they would immure my soul. I cannot escape! I am virtually a prisoner in body and spirit—with energies, which must not act—affections, which must not flow! I thirst for liberty and love!"

Lower and lower dipped the moon—and higher mounted the shade upon the steeple—the golden trumpet was glistenless as the rest, and the stars only kept guard over the slumbering city, and the watcher knelt still—dreaming now love-dreams of appreciation and devotion—trances, almost realities in their passionate idealization; and then, as they cloyed by their very sweetness—or the real and the present would burst upon her, crying in anguished accents, "I thirst!"

---

[CHAPTER XII.]

Josephine Read gave a party—her first, and the first of the season; an onerous undertaking for a young, and comparatively inexperienced housekeeper; but she went about it bravely and confidently. She did not overrate her capacity; if she had a talent for anything, it was for housewifery—"driving" included. If her domestic machinery did not work well, it was not for lack of scolding; and, it was rumored, not because more stringent measures were not employed by her own fair hands.

"Miss Josephine flies about the kitchen like a pea 'pon a hot shovel;" said Rachel, the day before that for which the rest of the week was made. "It's 'sprising how much spring she's got in that little body of hern, and how much spite too, if you'll 'low me to say it, Miss Ida."

"I certainly shall not," said Ida, severely. "I do not care to hear your remarks upon her now, or at any time. They are neither respectful or becoming."

"Law! Miss Ida! you know Miss Josephine as well as I do; what harm does my talking do? I was goin' to tell you, that I thought I should a' died laughin' to see how mad she was, when Joe dropped the big cake she sent to the confectionaries to have iced. Her face turned red as them curtains, and soon as she could move, she pulled off her shoe, and gave him such a lick 'pon the side of his head, I'll bound he seed stars!"

"Are your preparations concluded?" asked Mr. Read, that night.

"I believe so, sir."

"'You believe so!' why can't you give a direct answer? I hate this mincing you women think so pretty. Are you ready!"

"The table is not set," said Josephine, provokingly, "and the jellies and creams are not turned into the dishes yet."

"What will this tomfoolery cost?" barked her father.

"I don't know, sir—what other people's parties do."

"You are wonderfully independent, young woman! you intend to foot the bills I hope."

No answer, except a bar of a popular air, hummed, while trying on a head-dress.

"Whom have you invited?"

"There is the list—you can read it."

He looked at it surlily. "How many rooms do you open?"

"The parlors and dining room;—unless you prefer to have the dressing-rooms in the third story, and give up your chamber to the dancers."

"Have the goodness to leave me out of the scrape. I shall go to bed directly after supper. You two may do your husband hunting without my help. I pity the man who gets either of you."

"Since you are so much opposed to this party, I will recall my invitations to-morrow morning," retorted Josephine, irritated by his peevish vulgarity, to take a high stand herself.

"You will not, Miss! Carry out what you have commenced—much joy may you have of it!"

What pleasure or benefit could arise from this snarling contradiction, would have defied a wiser brain than Ida's to determine. She once imagined it a part of Mr. Read's schooling; that he sought to inure his pupil to the treatment she would receive from the world; but this impression was corrected by observing that the effrontery he had taught her angered him beyond measure, when exhibited towards himself. Variance appeared to be necessary to their existence; a safety-valve, for the ill humors they could not throw out upon others. It was a curious fact that their going into company, at home or abroad, was invaribly preceded by this moral phlebotomizing, and in proportion to the extent of the depletion, was the subsequent affability. It was therefore to be expected that they should appear in the drawing-room on the evening of the party, looking their best;—she, deferentially respectful to "Papa," and he, marking "my daughter, sir's," motions with paternal pride. A large party usually belongs to one of two classes—the stiffly regular, or the noisily irregular. At the former, there is considerably less sociability and ease than is prevalent among a corps of raw recruits upon parade, under the eye of a martinet drilled serjeant. As many as can obtain seats, seize them; a vacant chair is rushed for, as in the game of "budge-all," and the hapless standers are awkwardly alive to the circumstance of being, not men, but hands, legs and feet; white kid gloves are at a premium, a bouquet is a godsend;—the pulling off and on of the first, and the criticism of the latter, are engrossing subjects of reflection and entertainment. There are knots of men in the entry, and in the corners, and behind doors; and rows of ladies against the wall, and stretched out transversely and longitudinally through the room. Supper over, watches are slyly consulted, yawns dexterously swallowed, and presently the crowd is thinner, though no one goes. Then come whispered adieux;—"so sorry to quit your charming party at this early hour,—but papa charged me to be home by twelve, and he is so particular;" and "my dear Mrs. Heavyaslead, I must tear myself away—mamma was not well to-night; I am quite uneasy about her;"—and there are headaches and sideaches, and toothaches, until the poor hostess wonders that she never suspected before what an unhealthy circle of acquaintances she has.

At a gathering of the second class, everybody knows everybody else, or gets acquainted off-hand, with or without an introduction. The company are, to a man, in favor of a standing army. Except a small number of chairs, over which are carefully trained the confirmed wall-flowers, seats are voted in the way;—each joke is capital;—each laugh a scream. Girls rattle and coquet, and gentlemen bow and flatter; you stumble upon a flirtation at every step, and cannot tread upon a boot or corn without cutting a gallant speech in the middle; time pieces are put back two or three hours, and ostentatiously showed around, to prove that "there is time enough yet." Morning breaks, ere the revellers unwillingly depart, and Mr. and Mrs. Cricketspry hear, for six months after, of the "splendid time we had at your party."

Miss Read's soiree promised to be of the first-named order.—A large proportion of her guests were strangers to each other, and she had not the tact to amalgamate the mixture. A hostess must be impartial; the safest course is to ignore the object of her preference, even at the risk of being misunderstood; better offend one, than an hundred. Josephine made no such heroic sacrifice. She had invited Mr. Lacy; the rest were there to see, and they were not backward to discern this. She had twice made the circuit of the rooms upon his arm, and stood for half an hour between the folding-doors, in conversation, that, so far as her efforts went, was confidential, when her father touched her shoulder. "Are we to have no dancing, Josey?"

"If my friends desire it—certainly! Mr. Pemberton"—as that individual frisked by,—"Do me the favor to act as master of ceremonies, and form a set."

"With pleasure, Miss Josephine, provided I am honored by your hand—for the dance—I mean;" tickled to excess by his witty clause.

The hateful puppy! but there was no retreat. Had Mr. Lacy been out of earshot, she would have pleaded an engagement, so certain was she that he would ask her, but she could not utter so palpable a falsehood in his hearing. She did hope that he would interfere, and with the inimitable self-possession which distinguished him, open an avenue of escape by implying, if not asserting his right of priority; but he was silent, and she yielded an ungracious assent. Mr. Pemberton was a boasted adept in the art of "cutting out"—a system of counter-plotting, too well understood to need explanation here; and as he bustled around, officious and fussy, he circulated, as the latest and best joke, an account of his cunning in "heading off that chap, Lacy."

"Are you fond of this amusement?" inquired the latter of Josephine.

"Passionately!" said she, brightening up at this, as she thought, prefatory remark. The next was still more promising.

"You will not stop at a single set then?"

"Oh, no! I often keep the floor for hours. It is a healthful and innocent exercise. I had rather dance than spend the evening in gossiping after the fashion of the strait-laced sort, who are conscientiously opposed to 'wordly follies.'"

Mr. Lacy smiled, a little queerly. It was evident that he agreed with her, in her estimate of these over-scrupulous worthies. Still, the coveted request did not arrive, and she tossed out a desperate feeler.

"You do not think it undignified to dance, do you?"

"Perhaps if I were to state why I never participate in the pastime you laud so warmly, you would accuse me of an unmanly fondness for a dish of scandal."

What did he say? What did it mean? His amusement increased with her bewilderment, and before an explanation could be asked or given, Mr. Pemberton took her hand.

Ida had, thus far, passed the dullest of dull evenings. Lynn and Charley, who never let her suffer for attention when they were by, had a business engagement which would detain them until late; it was even doubtful if they could come at all. She talked at a moustached, be-whiskered, and be-imperialed youth who solicited an introduction, because he had heard that she was "smart," and hoped she could appreciate him; his conversational talents compensating in quality for their deficiency in quantity; anybody could talk, but who could dress, and stand, and look as he did? She tried to draw him out by encouraging smiles, and well put queries—he tugged at his waistcoat—she rallied him upon his abstraction—he stroked his left whisker—she pretended offence at one of his milk-and-water responses—he performed the like kindly office to the right—and she gave up in despair.

Mr. De Langue was next. He was "smart" himself, and therefore could appreciate her, and to prove this, he rolled forth volume after volume of French compliments, unanswerable, because so highly polished that one could not, as it were, take hold of them;—edified her by disquisitions upon subjects of which she was profoundly ignorant, and information respecting others, of which she knew more than himself. After much manoeuvring she sought refuge in a corner, fatigued, disgusted and misanthropical. "I have thought that I might shine in general company, where feeling never enters, and flaring flippancy passes for wit; it seemed easy to manufacture small-talk, but I was mistaken. This is 'rational recreation!' the pleasure of mingling in 'the best society,' as Josephine says. I envy St. Simon in his twenty years' solitude upon his stone pillar."

"Compton, my dear fellow, can you make room for me to pass?" said a voice near her. "If I were a lady, I would faint, and let you extricate me, as I am not, I must fight my way out."

The gentleman addressed exerted his powers of compression, and Mr. Lacy edged by him. His course was towards the door, but he stopped as he espied Ida "Miss Ross, have you a welcome in your 'Retreat' for a storm-tossed wanderer? Your quiet nook is most inviting."

Ida looked up mischievously. "I will not hinder your flight, Mr. Lacy. Your envy of my corner is wasted upon one who heard you singing a moment since, like the melancholy starling, 'I can't get out! I can't get out!'"

"I plead guilty—but if a mightier temptation has mastered my desire for liberty? There are birds that will not fly after the cage door is unfastened."

"They do not merit freedom," said she.

"Be it so—this is my prison," rejoined the gentleman, seating himself upon an ottoman which Josephine, to get out of the way, had wedged behind the door, thinking as she did so, that it might prevent the pressure of the crowd from breaking the hinges, with not a presentiment that she was furnishing a hiding-place for the last one of all the world whom she would have concealed.

"Now," continued he, "as I can see but one, I recognise but one jailor, and you will be merciful, remembering my voluntary incarceration. And as a starting-point to the conversation, why are you not in the other room?"

"For the simple reason that no one has invited me to dance."

He looked surprised, yet pleased at her frankness. "You would go, if you received an invitation?"

"That would depend upon circumstances. I should assuredly decline one from you."

"And why?"

"I would not accept of anything offered in obedience to what the one who tendered it considered a hint. How I might act if I were a devotee of Terpsichore, I do not know, but a conversazione is more attractive to me than a ball."

"We shall not quarrel there, and it is well that we agree in disagreeing with the general sentiment. Taught by the experience gained in our short acquaintance, I should prefer a petition with a quaking heart."

"You need not apprehend a refusal, provided your demand is reasonable and properly timed," answered Ida.

"Which of these provisoes was wanting to ensure the success of the suit you negatived, upon the evening of our introduction?"

"Both," she returned, laughing. "You insisted that I should sing, at sight, a song already dear to you, and I declined to spoil the music, and wreck my musical reputation with a stranger, from whose mind I might never have an opportunity of removing the unfortunate opinion."

"In contrariety to these considerations, were the wish to oblige me, and a dislike to wound the feelings of your friend, Miss Josephine, and this scale kicked the beam?" said Mr. Lacy, interrogatively.

"No; Josephine was out of the question; she did not expect me to comply. We never sing together—or very rarely. My voice is not a contralto, nor does it accord with her's. You will have to be content with my explanation; I speak truth in the smallest matters."

"The false in trifles are seldom reliable in things of greater moment," replied the other. "There is less deliberate, malicious falsehood in the world than we suppose. Men are oftener liars from habit, than from necessity or temptation."

"But to this habit there must be a beginning. Is there no sin in the earliest deviation from the right way?"

"I did not say that there is not sin in every violation of truth. Each one is a stain upon the soul—blots, that too frequently deface it forever; but I do not subscribe to the casuistry that gauges the guilt of a lie entirely by its effects upon others—which smiles upon, as a harmless simpleton, him who 'fibs' or 'yarns' or 'embroiders' in cowardice or vanity, and empties the vials of wrath upon the Pariah, who seeks, by one heaven-daring falsehood, to save what he holds most dear. One destroys the mirror by gradually damaging its bright surface, the other shivers it at one reckless blow."

"This has often struck me," said Ida. "It appears to me that the slower process deadens the conscience most surely, and the insensibility of those who practice it, betrays a more diseased state of the moral system than the pangs of remorse."

"Undoubtedly; and this should make us doubly watchful against any infringement of veracity. The straightest, the only safe road is 'the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the truth.'"

"And who adheres to this rule?" asked Ida. "How much truth, do you imagine, is being uttered now in these rooms?"

"We are discoursing very philosophically, and will be charitable enough to believe that numerous couples are similarly engaged."

"Do you recollect Talleyrand's definition of speech?" inquired Ida.

"'A faculty whereby we conceal our thoughts'—yes—a sentence worthy of its author. What a life this would be if we were all Talleyrands!"

"We are—according to our capacities," said Ida.

"A singular sentiment for one of your age and sex!" replied Mr. Lacy, with a searching look. "Has the world served you so unkindly, that you condemn your kind without reservation?"

"There was a mental reservation; yet my observation was true in a general sense. Men live for themselves;—it is humiliating to see how this principle regulates feeling and action. We love our friends because they are ours;—the pronoun 'my' expresses a nearness and sweetness which causes us to idolize the thing we appropriate;—'my own' is the most endearing of appellations—what is the delight it inspires, but the grossest vanity and selfishness?"

"Pardon me, that I differ with you. Our love is won by the qualities of its object;—there would be no pleasure in appropriation were not our affections enlisted;—no thrill of joy in identifying with ourselves, the unknown or unlovely;—if forced upon us, dislike would ensue. We become attached to our dear ones for their own sakes; although it cannot be denied, that a knowledge of a reciprocation of affection is an auxiliary to the growth of that fondness."

"And do you honestly credit the disinterestedness of human nature?"

"I do—in many instances, and so do you. Look at the benefactors of mankind—a Howard, preferring the noisome prison-cell to competence and home;—a Wilberforce, spending and spent in the great work;—the missionaries of the cross, at this moment scattered in all lands, cut off from friends and civilization, without prospect of emolument or renown; forgotten, it may be, by all but Him, in whose strength they labor; where is the self-interest in this?"

"Your last is a puzzling case. The theory I have advanced, perhaps too boldly, was not of my own choosing. I was compelled to its adoption by evidence which seemed incontestable, and I retain it because it solves more riddles in the complex machinery of society than any other I have heard. But it has its difficulties, and the main one is such conduct as you allude to. There is a key to the enigma, I suppose, if I could only find it."

"There is," said Mr. Lacy, feelingly. "There is a love which purifies the rest, a peace we would have all men know. They err, who say that devotion to God weans the heart from our friends. Our Divine Master has left us a new commandment—'that we love one another,' and with the increase of our love for Him, our souls enlarge, until the arms of brotherly kindness embrace the universal family of mankind. There is no such being as a selfish Christian."

Ida listened in amazement. This language was uncommon at any time and place out of the pulpit, but from an elegant and popular young man, it was novel in the extreme.

"I can hardly understand the workings of a principle, which is itself a mystery," she said. "Time was when religion was a household word to me, but exposure to adverse influences has erased from my mind all knowledge of this kind, if I ever had any understanding of its meaning."

"You have the instruction of the immortal spirit within you. Is that satisfied with its fare? Are you content with yourself and your mode of life?"

"Content!" The tone was a sufficient reply.

"Will you allow me to use the freedom of a friend, Miss Ross, and show you that in neglecting this subject you shut your eyes to the only true happiness? I know that the lot which appears brightest is checkered with vicissitudes—inward struggles, more trying than many visible afflictions. Against these, neither the spirits of youth nor the reasonings of philosophy can always prevail. I know how the lip smiles and the heart bleeds, although the anguish within does not drown the gay words upon the tongue. We may—we do conceal, but the sting rankles the same. Our Father never designed that we should be happy away from Him. These misgivings, this discontent with ourselves, and pinings for something better and higher, are voices beseeching us to partake of his love; they are the homesickness of a child, who has strayed, and has forgotten in new scenes the parent he has deserted, and the sight of a flower, a breath of warm air, a song he used to love, calls up the remembrance of that father, and a gush of shame and longing he is too proud to confess. Thus much all feel, but upon some fall heavier trials. Earth has no cure for the woes which a residence here entails upon us. Young as you are you may know this?"

"I do!"

"Is what I am saying disagreeable to you?"

"No, sir;—go on, if you please!"

"Then, if we are told of One, who cannot only comfort, but convert distress into blessing; of whose loving protection nothing can deprive us; who will make this life tolerable—nay, pleasant, and assure us of an eternity of bliss to be shared with Him,—is it not the maddest folly to refuse the pledge He asks in return—a child's love and trust?"

"I do not feel that I have acted thus!" said Ida, suddenly. "My reason assents to what you have said, but my conscience is dumb. The thought of a God—Almighty and Holy—overwhelms me with awe—sometimes-with terror. As Ruler and Judge, I pay him homage, and obey, when I can, the letter of His law;—but He does not care particularly for me—one of the most obscure of His countless subjects. I believe that He is a tender Father to the favored ones who have tasted His grace, and they ought to adore and love. I thank Him, from afar off, for preservation—not for creation—and he does not call me nearer. You think me very wicked, Mr. Lacy;—but as I said, if I speak at all, I speak candidly."

"I like your truthfulness. You express what others secretly feel; this distant respect is the natural tone of an enlightened mind, wedded to an unregenerate heart; and in your remarks, I detect the bitterness which is its concomitant,—amounting, in some, to deadly enmity against their Maker and Redeemer. Do you read the Bible—may I ask?"

"Yes—occasionally."

"From what motive?"

"I read it as a curiosity in literature—but that is not the principal reason"—

"Excuse me,—I had no right to put the question. I wished to know if you had noticed one or two passages—such as—'All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient and gainsaying people.' 'When I called ye did not answer—when I spake, ye did not hear.' 'O Israel! thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy hope!' There is scarcely a page which does not bear some moving expostulation or entreaty; and the disciple who knew Him best, condenses in one celestial drop the stream of revelation,'God is Love!' Not a word of Power or Justice! We cannot exaggerate these attributes, but we may dwell upon them, to the exclusion of His long-suffering and loving kindness."

"You have a strange way of speaking of these matters;" said Ida. "I am acquainted with a number of excellent Christians, who never refer to the name by which they are called, but at long intervals, in set terms, and in a tone which frightens the 'sinners' to whom they address their exhortations. I have been troubled whether to question their sincerity, or the Faith, which they assert, controls them."

"Doubt neither. Ascribe their silence to diffidence, or a fear of giving offence; their unhappy manner, to ignorance of the proper method of managing hearts. It is to be regretted that the one Reality upon the globe should be banished from familiar conversation. If a man is sleeping upon the sea-shore, the big waves washing his pillow at each surge, am I censurable if I end his happy slumbers? Or, to employ an illustration which suits me better—I have a dear friend, to whom you are a stranger. With my esteem for you, will not my desire to bring you together, grow stronger? When I discover traits in you which he would approve, will not I tell you of him, and use every means to facilitate an acquaintance, so pleasant and profitable? Especially, if a time is certainly coming, when you will require his assistance;—an emergency is to overtake you, when all help but his will be vain—does it not become my imperative duty to implore you to accept the friendship he stands ready to bestow?"

"Do not the Scriptures speak of the veil that is upon their hearts?" said Ida.

"Yes—but it is the veil of unbelief. If we do not of ourselves endeavour to tear it away, the light which streams upon us, at its removal, may be too late. God does not need, but He demands our co-operation in His schemes for our salvation. There is our friend, Charley Dana; he is late for a gentleman of his punctual habits."

The conversation changed. Ida would gladly have heard more of a topic, so unusual, and previously so unpleasing, but he dropped it, and she did not oppose him. The manner, more than the matter of his language, took her fancy. He did not arrogate superiority of sense or goodness, and had none of the stereotyped cant she dreaded; he did not preach, but talked, easily and quietly; most of the time, with the smile she thought so beautiful, and she observed his avoidance of "you" and "I,"—substituting, when it could be done—"we" and "us," as if to lay a platform of perfect equality. If he had intended to leave the room, when he fell in with her, he altered his purpose. Charley and Lynn paid their respects, chatted awhile, and went their ways;—the former to dance and jest with divers merry belles, who hailed his approach, a relief from the very minor flats, upon which they had been playing, during the tedious hours in the halls, which were not "halls of mirth." Lynn sought Ellen Morris; and if Ida had seen the scarlet stain that suffused her cheeks, as she perceived him, she would have had "confirmation strong" of a suspicion entertained from the first time she had beheld them together. Mr. Lacy withstood his jailor's offers of liberation. "If she were inclined to change her place, or to promenade, he was at her service, but no alteration could better his condition;" and Ida's fears of detaining him, being dissipated by this straight-forward avowal, she abandoned herself to the enjoyment of communion with a noble intellect and finely-attuned spirit. The announcement of supper, the tocsin of liberty to a majority of the company, interrupted their lively dialogue.

Long before this, Josephine's eyes had raked the parlours from wall to wall, and she was fully satisfied, or dis-satisfied that her polar star was missing.

In the sickness of the disappointment, she hated the show of pleasure going on about her: the most fagged-out of the chaperon wall-flowers did not wish for the hour of separation more ardently than did she. There was one streak of light upon the cloud;—no society could recompense him for parting with hers, and he had departed in consequence: but she could have bitten her tongue off, as she deplored her injudicious declaration (untrue too!) of devotion to an amusement, for which she cared nothing. Was ever girl so impolitic? What if he were himself one of this "religious sort?" the bare supposition was distracting! she had committed the unpardonable sin!

"What have you done with Mr. Lacy?" queried one and another, and a ready untruth answered, "He had an engagement, which obliged him to go early." Charley overheard one repetition of this excuse; but although his eyes wandered, with a comical roll, towards the retreat of the recusant, he kept his own counsel. By supper-time, she was so convinced of the truth of her fabrication, that she neglected to institute a search which would have showed her Mr. Lacy and Ida, at the farthest end of the table. Twice again, she could have been blessed by a sight of him. Charley having invited Ida to a promenade in the hall, Mr. Lacy bethought him of his fair and partial hostess; but she was not to be found. She was lying upon the bed in her chamber, fretting over her "foolishness," and the "stupidity and worry" of all parties,—hers in particular. Smoothing her face and ringlets, she regained the parlor by one door, as Morton left it by another. He encountered Ida and Charley, and walked with them until the carriages came to the door. Josephine accompanied several of her most fashionable guests to the dressing-room; and Mr. Lacy, seeing there was no one to receive his congé, made none.

The day after! Mr. Read was growling and headachy;—Josephine in her worst humor, and itching to vent it. The breakfast hour was enlivened by a continual peppering of small shot from her, varied by a big gun from her father. He sneered at her arrangements and company, saying much that was cuttingly true, more, really, than he was aware of; and she pecked at him and the servants. In spite of her dislike, Ida pitied her, as she surveyed the heaps of unwashed dishes and glasses; the carpets, spotted with wine,—cake and jelly trampled into their velvet; and the forlorn disorder that reigned over all. She was on the point of offering her assistance, when Josephine brushed by her, with a peremptory order to "folks who were cluttering up the room, to be off, if they did not mean to work!" Herself, the cat and the footman, who was collecting the remains of the feast, comprising the auditory, Ida thought herself justifiable in taking a share of the hint.

She sent Rachel down in her place, enjoining upon her, as a prudential measure, not to speak, unless when asked a direct question.

As to Ida, the close of her evening had more than compensated for the ennui of the beginning; she had no foiled stratagems, no tangled snares to lament; yet the dissipation produced a nervous languor, tempting, yet dissuading her from action. She read—and the letters danced cotillions and waltzes over the page. The piano was in the parlor—but so was Josephine. She essayed to sew, and stitched up a seam wrong side out, and ran the point of the needle under her finger nail.

"I must walk—I have it! Mrs. Dana will like to hear about the party, and there is Elle's doll's hat."

Her gloves were in a bureau drawer, and near them lay a velvet case, enclosing the miniature of her parents—excellent likenesses, but owing to some oversight in mixing, or in the quality of the colors, they were fading already. She had signified to Mr. Read her intention to have them copied, before they should be so much defaced as to render it impracticable; why not give them to Lynn? His ability was uncontrovertible—it would be a kindness to him now, in the outset of his professional career; and she had the vanity to believe that he would bestow double pains upon what she so valued. She would carry them to Mrs. Dana, and ask her advice.

That lady was in her nursery, which was one of Ida's accustomed haunts. She was at home at once; tossing the babe, and joining her voice to its chuckling laugh, until the room rang again; Charley hanging upon her dress to entreat her praises of his hobby-horse; and Elle waiting patiently to kiss her for the "sweet bonnet that just fitted Dolly."

"You have come to stay a good long time with me, I know," said Mrs. Dana. "Here is a note I was about to send to you, requesting the pleasure of your company to dinner. I thought you had rather be out of the way while Miss Josephine is 'cleaning up,' and to be candid, Mr. Dana has invited two or three gentlemen to dine with us, and I am too bashful to face them unsupported. I did not write this, lest you should have scruples on the subject, but you must stay for my sake and John's. He made it a point that you should be asked. Do you know I am getting jealous?"

"But indeed, my dear madam"—

"But indeed, my dear miss, you will remove your bonnet immediately."

Resistance was useless; nor would Ida have offered it, had she been sure of meeting only the family; for the sun shone more brightly into this home-nest of cheerful peace, than into the abode she had lately quitted. The Danas knew enough of Mr. Read and Josephine, to make them solicitous to withdraw Ida as much from their influence as was consistent with her duty as a ward. She never complained, except to Carry, but they respected her the more for her prudence.

"You will spoil me," said she, as Mrs. Dana untied her bonnet.

"No danger," replied the lady, kissing her forehead—Carry's caress—and as other lips did, years ago. Tears stood in the orphan's eyes, but they did not fall. Elle wondered why cousin Ida could not see her doll's cloak without holding her head so near to it.

Mrs. Dana approved entirely of her project.

"Will you take them to him this morning?" inquired she.

"I certainly had such a notion, but I do not like to go without you, and as you are expecting company"—

"No time like the present, my dear. My dinner is in the hands of the cook; I shall not be wanted here for two hours. It is a lovely day, and I am glad of an errand that affords an excuse to go out."

As they were passing "Dana & Co.'s" she halted.

"Had we not better ask Mr. Dana to pilot us? I am uncertain of the exact locality of this same studio."

Mr. Dana could not go; he was waiting upon a country customer with a memorandum as long as his arm; but he conducted the ladies into the counting-room. Charley was there, at a tall desk, buried in ledgers and filed bills; and so business-like, that Ida hung back upon the threshold—a fear, of which she was ashamed, as he extended both hands to her, thanked them for their visit, and offered to escort them. He unlocked his bachelor's pantry of crackers, cheese and choice Madeira, hospitality which they civilly declined. Mr. Dana left the counter "to hope that he should see Miss Ida at dinner;" a courtesy which was a a sign of esteem and favor from one of his reticent disposition.

Lynn's studio was a small, but exquisitely appointed room. It was a minute before the eyes, used to the out-door light, could penetrate the claro-obscuro of its twilight.

Ida knew Lynn by his voice, and pressure of her hand, then a taller figure was developed to her vision, and she recognised Mr. Lacy.

"Are you engaged, Mr. Holmes?" asked Mrs. Dana.

"No, madam; Mr. Lacy has just concluded a sitting—the last. Your coming is opportune, you can criticise his portrait."

The voice was unanimous. It was a masterly painting, and faithful to life.

"A personable individual too, Morton—considering—" said Charley. "Did you have it painted for a sign-board? 'Morton Lacy, attorney at law,—For recommendations, see heading of this article.' What a multitude of lady-clients you would have!"

"It is for a lady who will not part with it, even to procure me a press of clients—for my mother," returned Mr. Lacy. "She will feel herself to be under great obligations to you, Mr. Holmes, for so truthful a transcript of her 'absent boy.'"

Ida looked at the original instead of the picture. It was, then, the handsomer of the two. With a complimentary observation of the workmanship, he dismissed the subject, and directed Ida to a genuine Claude, Lynn's pride and boast. She slipped her case into Mrs. Dana's hand, and followed him. Lynn presently approached.

"It would be an idle form to say that I am honoured by your application," said he. "Your heart will tell you how I esteem this proof of your friendship. It is a sacred trust, and as such I will fulfil it."

"I feared you would discourage me," replied Ida. "Is it not difficult to take a picture, the size of life, from a miniature?"

"It requires care, and a just regard to proportions; but I have an assurance of success in my willingness to attempt the work. I hope—I know I shall not fail. Now, what shall I do to entertain you? I am so unused to morning calls from ladies—and such ladies! that I am at a loss how to bear my honors."

"Where are those long-promised portfolios?" said Ida. "We could not desire a more acceptable treat."

The hour consumed in the examination of the artist's pictured treasures, was, to Ida, one of unalloyed delight. There might yet be diamonds in the pebbly sands of Richmond. Coke loomed up threateningly before Mr. Lacy; and Charley and Mrs. Dana felt some conscience-prickings, at the thought of Daybooks and desserts; but they did not offer to stir until Lynn affirmed that he had nothing more to show.

"There are good points in this working-day life of ours, are there not?" said Charley, as they went down the steps.

"Just my sentiments!" answered Mr. Lacy. "Yet Mr. Holmes is a dangerous citizen. He has beguiled an unsuspecting youth out of two hours of study. This is my apology for leaving pleasant company;—it is a consolation to a benevolent-minded person like myself, to know that I, and not they, will suffer from the separation. Adieu!"

"'Till dinner-time," said Mrs. Dana.

Mr. Dana convened a circle of friends to meet a young Northerner, the bearer of an introductory letter from his New York partner; and it was apparent that his ideas of the boundaries of civilization—'North by Cape Cod—South by Sandy Hook'—were seriously shaken by this peep at Virginia life. Mrs. Dana was, Charley maintained, a 'star housekeeper'; and her laurels did not wilt to-day. A perfect understanding existed between her and her head-waiter, 'Uncle Abraham.' She did not issue an order; and in emulation of her quiet manner, his instructions to his satellites were inaudible to the guests. Mr. Lacy, Lynn, Mr. Brigham, (the stranger,) Mr. Villet, a French gentleman, whose amiability and politeness would have been his passport in any kingdom and clime, Mr. Thornton, recently admitted to the bar, and a fair sample of the educated Southerner; with the two Danas, and the ladies, made up the company.

Mr. Thornton sat by Ida; Mr. Lacy opposite. His quick look of pleasure, as he was shown his place, indicated his satisfaction; and although he did not interfere with her brilliant neighbor by addressing her in words, he did so frequently by his eye and smile. The conversation streamed on in a glittering tide;—Mr. Thornton, always ready with fun or sense, and Charley, whose creed interdicted flagging chit-chat leading—then Lynn, warming, dashed in; pursued, very cautiously, by Mr. Brigham. Mr. Villet cheered them on by his gusto of every repartee; and John Dana set his seal of confirmation upon each profound remark. Mr. Lacy said comparatively little; he seemed to prefer looking on; but his intelligent countenance spoke so eloquently for him, that his silence did not obstruct the hilarious current. There was another listener, who entered heartily into the spirit of the hour;—never imagining that the speakers gathered animation from her beaming face. She was oblivious of the fact of her bodily presence, until brought to the knowledge by the host's,

"Mr. Lacy,—Miss Ross will take a glass of wine with you."

Mr. Lacy spoke a word to the servant who stood prepared to fill his glass; and bowing with graceful composure to his vis-à-vis—

"Miss Ross will not forbid my pledging her health and happiness in a purer draught," he said, and raised a tumbler of water to his lips.

Temperance societies were not much in vogue in those days; and were not in such odor as now; and this movement astounded all present. Mr. Thornton, who had the common infirmity of wits, who have not learned the inadequacy of this one talent,—rare 'though it be,—to supply the loss of everything else: and whose greatest fault was, that he ran his trenchant blade as often into the breast of a friend, as foe, assailed his professional brother on the spot. He was parried with immovable good humour; and the others came to his aid; some with arguments, some with questions. Even Mr. Villet could not refrain from a cut of polite ridicule. The assailed maintained his ground manfully; neither staggered nor dismayed by the odds against him. He knew every foot of the field, having fought upon it more times than any of them. Charley laid down his arms first—'silenced if not convinced' he owned; Mr. Thornton was 'floored' by a thrust equal to his last blow;—the fate of the battle was to be determined by single combat; Lynn being unvanquished. He was an expert fencer; and changing his tactics, stood upon the defensive. Once and again, was he forced into a corner, from which retreat appeared impossible; and as often was he seen the next moment, fighting in the open plain, with unbattered crest. His opponent proposed a suspension of hostilities, but the auditors vetoed it peremptorily. They were alike amused and interested; and Mr. Lacy observed, with a smile, that the ruby poison, the engenderer of the strife, was untouched during the discussion. Mrs. Dana made a feint of withdrawal, and was solicited to remain, 'to be in at the death,' Charley said. He had a double motive in supporting the request; he foresaw defeat for Lynn; and although the admirable temper of the argument was likely to continue to the end, he judged it best to keep his gallantry in play, as a balance-wheel to his impetuosity. The event did not disappoint his expectation. Lynn was game to the last, but surrender or not, he was indubitably beaten. Mr. Lacy covered his enemy's rout by a flattering tribute to his argumentative abilities, and the two laughingly shook hands, as they arose from the board.

In the parlor, their undisputed court, the ladies received the attention which had been diverted from them by the wordy war.

"To show that I bear no malice for old scores, I repeat the petition that met with so obstinate a refusal," said Mr. Lacy, giving Ida his arm. "Will you sing for me?"

"'Say, what shall my song be to-night,
And the strain at your bidding shall flow,'"

she replied, running her fingers over the keys.

"That I leave to you. I do not know what suits your voice or taste."

"'The Last Rose of Summer,'" prompted Charley; "afterwards, the 'Captive Knight.'"

Mr. Lacy laughed; supposing he intended a satire upon the "miscellaneous" songsters, he had also thought of, when he objected to making a selection; and Ida, slightly piqued at his want of confidence in her powers of vocalization, sang both with inimitable skill and expression. The gentlemen pressed around to ask, each, for his favorite song. She complied readily and patiently. The natural compass and strength of her voice had been increased by diligent practice, yet music was with her, more a passion than an art; her songs, spirit-utterances instead of the compositions of others, learned by rote.

"She is actually beautiful!" said Mr. Dana, aside to his brother.

"Something above the order of puppets, nicknamed young ladies, with which people ornament their parlors now-a-days," was the reply.

Removed from the gnome-like regards of Josephine, she was, indeed, a different being. The presence of this girl was a mental extinguisher—smothering the flame of feeling in fetid smoke—the kindliness of the Danas, the generous oil feeding the exhausted lamp. Years afterwards, when the purple flush had faded from life's morning, the scene preceding her departure upon this evening, would recur, as one of the proudest and happiest moments of her existence—John Dana, standing in front of her, his grave features relaxed into a smile of fatherly fondness, as he heard her defence of herself against an accusation of Mr. Thornton's—Mrs. Dana, her hand upon her husband's shoulder, listening and enjoying—Charley and Lynn, her allies and counsellors, waiting to add their testimony—Mr. Lacy sitting beside her, and drinking in her words with an avidity that brought the blood tingling to her cheeks, and excited the meaning smiles of the spectators. She was in her proper sphere; the centre and idol of a home-circle. The praises lavished upon her were honestly won—too much would have satiated, not spoiled—the utter absence of reward soured her.

"I have had a happy, happy day, dear Mrs. Dana!" whispered she, at going. "I shall write to Carry to-morrow, to apprise her how well you fill her place."

Mr. Lacy attended her home. Curiosity had set for him the study of her character. Her mien bespoke no ordinary soul; and the inuendoes of Josephine, meant to deter him from prosecuting it, stimulated his desire. They had been together repeatedly, previous to the party, but always in the company of the Extinguisher. Her arch glance and rejoinder to his thoughtless remark, while recalling Josephine's insinuation of her hoydenish propensities, nevertheless fascinated him. From being amused, he grew interested; he was working a mine of thought, and unless the clue was false, there was a substratum of feeling. The friendship of the Danas convinced him that the heart was warm and true. He saw the frank girl amidst the friends in the studio, and the accomplished woman in the coterie of the evening; and could not say which was most attractive. "So much intelligence and so little affectation are seldom seen in the same person;" he meditated. "She has the materials for a noble character." Did he think to mould it!

---

[CHAPTER XIII.]

Our youthful débutantes were plunged into the maelstrôm of a fashionable season; a whirl which, in its outermost circles, was as gratifying to the feverish energy of Ida as to the vanity of her more grovelling-minded associate. The rapidly shortening days seemed longer instead, so uneventful and wearisome were they. Life commenced when the evening's thousand lamps were lit. The mingling perfumes; the crush and flutter; the wave-like roar of the assembly-room, were delicious excitement to the emancipated school-girl; and to the astonishment of those who had known her then, the reserved student bloomed into the dashing wit and belle; beauties and heiresses sitting, uncourted by, while "eligibles" contended for the honor of her preference. Her newness was a part of the secret. The spectacle of a wild Zingara, unreined, and glorying in the fullness of its freedom, scorning bit and spur, amongst a pack of jaded hackneys, who have been trotted and paced and galloped, year after year, until their factitious animation and oft-repeated gambols create pity and contempt, would cause a sensation akin to that awakened by her appearance. Her lightest words were jeux d'esprit; her laugh, a chime of silver wedding-bells; (things by the way, of which every body talks, but nobody we have questioned, ever heard,) her singing seraphic; her ballads lyric gems; herself a Corinne. Josephine was latest to perceive, first to resent this sudden accession of popularity. Rivalry from this source was as unexpected as unbearable. Her glass showed her a form, airy as a summer cloud; a set of features more delicate and regular than Ida's characteristic-physiognomy; and in dress, she certainly bore off the palm; her maid being invariably rung up an hour and a half before Rachel's services were demanded. She fought, as long as she could, with the conviction that this pre-eminence was as though it had not been to the world; and when it made a violent entrance into her circumscribed intellect, how was the milk of her nature curdled to vinegar! And how like nitre to vinegar, were the happily-chosen congratulations of her attendant beaux, upon her good fortune in inhabiting the same house with "her charming friend, Miss Ross;" or, "Miss Ida even surpasses herself to-night;" "A remarkable girl! such vivacity! and I hear, quite as much profundity of mind; is this so, Miss Read?" And the writhing dissembler had to assent, and corroborate, and smile, while the yeasty waves frothed and bubbled furiously in their confinement. To expose her envy would damage her prospects, hinged as they were, in part, upon her sweetness of disposition.

It might have been a salvo to her wounded vanity had she guessed by what a length of time her jealousy outlived the triumph which aroused it; how the feast of adulation, so daintily spread, ceased to tempt, then nauseated; how, from the jewelled robe of society the gloss wore away, and threadbare tatters were all that remained of what was cloth of gold; how prevarications and oaths refused longer to shelter falsehood; and the garlands withered and shrank from manacles which heated with the wearing; how the earth itself was a thin, hollow ball, that one could puff away with a breath; how, ere the fire the revel had infused into her veins cooled, the coronal was plucked from the brow, the costly attire crushed petulantly, a worthless rag! And at that window, the freezing air not chilling her heated blood—the envied one wept blistering tears of self-abhorrence and despondency—and the night-wind sighed to the moan—"Not this! not this!" and the old prayer for "liberty and love!" We say, had she known this, she might have felt avenged; but the public, nor she, saw any alteration in its fondling and her detestation. It was the middle of December. Balls, concerts, and soirées had been given in breathless succession, and Ellen Morris issued tickets for yet another. The appointed hour saw the house overflowing. Ida was near the centre of the front parlor, radiant and flattered as usual. One gentleman, with an air of easy assurance, was inspecting her bouquet; a second, pushing a mock flirtation with all his might; a third, a callow youngster, afraid to speak to the "bright particular," he had so panted to behold, staring into her face in sheepish agony; and a fourth peered over the shoulder of number one.

"The camelia, Miss Ida, what is its emblem?" asked the bouquet holder.

"Beauty without wit;" rejoined she, but half hearing him, and then finishing a sentence to No. 2.

"Without amiability, you mean," corrected No. 4.

"Without wit!" said Ida. "I relish an active perfume, which can be detected without effort of mine, and do not prize a flower that must be bruised to extract its sweetness; amiability is, at best, a passive virtue."

"But what is a beautiful woman without softness, tenderness, effeminacy?" said No. 2, whose stock of words exceeded that of ideas. "She wins us by her yielding submissiveness, her gentle mildness. Destitute and devoid of these, she is to me without charm or attraction. Do not understand me, however, as depreciating or undervaluing wit in your presence!" recollecting himself, with a salaam.

"No apologies are necessary. We all agree that such depreciation would come with a bad grace from Mr. Talbot," said Ida, pointedly, returning a still deeper curtsey.

No. 1 nodded, as he laughed, to some one beside her. "Good evening," said Mr. Lacy, as she looked around.

"And he has overheard this nonsensical stuff!" thought she, with inward disturbance. "When did you come in?" she inquired.

"About ten minutes since; most of which time has been spent in a search for Mrs. or Miss Morris."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Glad—how?"

"I feared you had occupied your present position some time."

He understood her. "There are more people here than I expected to see," he said, after some general conversation.

"Almost too many," replied Ida; "I am getting tired of these great parties."

"The heat is oppressive. Have you a liking for this stand?"

"No—my being here is accidental. It requires some effort to stand, or walk upright, in the heart of this crowd."

"I noticed, as I came through, that the music room was more thinly-populated—will you rest there?"

This was a mere boudoir compared with others of the suite, and the prepossessions of the company were for music of a different kind. The violin was discoursing its enchanting strains in the farther apartment, and there were not above a dozen persons in the one, where slumbered the piano and guitar.

"Are you indisposed, Miss Ross?" asked Mr. Brigham, who was fanning a fragile-looking girl, reclining in an easy chair.

"No—only tired. You have acted wisely in shunning the press and bustle, Miss Moore. I am happy to see you able to venture out in the evening."

"Your climate is doing wonderful things for me," answered Miss Moore, smiling.

"How dreadful to be deprived of health, and the hope of a long life!" said Ida, when they were seated.

"And especially mournful in this instance, if I am not deceived!" replied Mr. Lacy. "I pity that man! he will not believe that bereavement is inevitable; and if death was ever branded upon human brow, it is upon hers."

"I honor his constancy and devotion," said Ida. "The object of his visit in the fall, was to acquaint himself with the advantages our city possesses for invalids; then he went back for her mother and herself. He is both brother and lover. Who would have expected this from a man of his phlegmatic constitution?"

"Another warning of the folly of judging by appearances. It is possible, too, that we who are pitying her are as much in want of compassion. The highest happiness is unaffected by extraneous influences."

"Happiness!" echoed Ida, "It is a myth."

"So says the sage of eighteen—gay, gifted and caressed! You will not entrap me into a sermon;" said Mr. Lacy, sportively. "No! no! Miss Ida! you will regard me as a lineal descendant of Bunyan's Mr. Law—a Giant Grim, who frequents places of amusement to corner children, and relate scary stories to them."

"A monster who does not exhibit himself often;" returned Ida. "This is but the second large party at which I have seen you. Are you principled against them?"

"No, and yes. I do not disapprove of social pleasures. They make light, yet firm, the bands that cement our species. Their suppression would convert the most benevolent into a morose eremite; but I do see incipient evil in the frequency of these scenes. Setting aside the waste of time, which may belong to matters of importance, sooner or later they produce a disrelish for domestic duties, and an enervation, physical and mental, like the languorous sobriety of a toper. There is nothing nourishing to the immortal mind, in a ceaseless round of gaiety."

"How do you know, by personal experience?"

"Even so. I once drank pretty deeply of Pleasure's cup—did not drain it to the lees—but drew off the clear wine, and was beginning to taste the bitter, before I would let go. I was in Mr. Holmes' studio, yesterday, and missed your portraits. You have them?"

"I have."

"Are you pleased?"

"Entirely. I do not remember my father, but Mr. Read says the likeness is good. The other could not be improved."

"Mr. Holmes is a painter of exalted abilities, and an enthusiast in his art. I did not know him well until our passage at arms at Mr. Dana's, the day we dined there. We have been friends ever since. My sister writes that his portrait of myself is a solace in the loneliness of her sick chamber. She has the kindest of mothers and friends, but there are times when they are unavoidably absent, and she is childish enough to talk to the dumb semblance of one who is not worthy of her love, and imagine that it looks back its answers."

"Have you but one sister?"

"But one at home—three are married. Annie seems nearer to me; she is next me in age, and until a year ago was my inseparable companion."

His eye rested upon Miss Moore. "We were speaking of happiness in affliction. If skeptical on this head, you should know her. She is never free from pain and never impatient; her sunny, loving temper, makes her room the resort of the neighborhood—but this does not interest you."

"Not interest me!" said Ida, reproachfully. "Do you then think me the heartless creature I appear? I am not wholly absorbed in self. We have never conversed as strangers; do not let us retrograde now. True, I have no sister, but I have a friend who is more to me, so I may listen."

"Thank you," said he sincerely. "I have feared you might deem my informal address presumptuous; but I seem to have known you for years, not months. I cannot wear my company manners when talking to you."

"Perhaps we have met before, in an anterior state of existence," replied Ida; "and lurking memories of introductions, and compliments, and staid courtesies, render these preliminaries odious now. I could be sure, sometimes, that my spirit had lived in this world before it tenanted its present body."

"These are fascinating, yet dangerous speculations," he answered. "I am tormented by them myself, but I shun them as unprofitable."

"Why so? The soul, as our nobler part, merits most study; its mysteries are yet undiscovered. What a field expands to our contemplation! over which the mind may rove and exult for ages, and leave unimpoverished. I would not barter one hour of such thoughts—chimerical though they may be—for ten years of this vapid, surface life. I had rather dive into the ocean, to bring up nothing but valueless shells, than drift, like dead sea-weed, upon the top of the sleepy waves."

"May I describe another mode of life and action?"

"Certainly—so you do not laugh at me."

"Do you apprehend that I shall?" fixing his clear eye upon hers. "I would remind you of the humble mariner, steering his vessel boldly, but carefully, through the waters, thankful in sunshine, courageous in tempest, with one port in view, rowing past the Fairy islands that stud the deep; keeping a straight path in a trackless waste, for he looks to the eternal heavens for guidance."

"I must sport among the islets," said Ida. "You do not quite comprehend me, Mr. Lacy. I have told you more than once that life has thus far been a disappointment to me, but it is not that I have sucked the orange dry, and would cast the tasteless pulp away. Mine has been so acid I must hope that time and the sun of prosperity will ripen it to lusciousness. Others tell of unknown depths of happiness I have capacity to enjoy—am I unreasonable in trusting that my turn will come? Have I tasted all of earth's delights at eighteen?"

"Could you quaff them at one draught, your thirst would not be appeased. You are no nearer to contentment now than you were three years since. The drink-offering of popular award is growing dull and stale; you sigh at what would have chased gloom a month ago, and this is the hey-day of pleasure. Nay," continued he, dropping his earnest tone, and bending to look into her face, "I shall not forgive myself if I mar your evening's entertainment by my croaking. Messrs. Talbot & Co.'s anathemas against my impertinent monopoly do not occasion me a hundredth part of the disquiet your very sober face does. Mr. Thornton is coming to ask you to dance. Will you go?"

"Fatigued!" exclaimed the barrister, to her excuse. "I should as soon admit the plea of a star for ceasing to shine upon the pretext that it was too troublesome to continue its light."

"Has there never been such a disappearance?" questioned Mr. Lacy.

"I have seen eclipses," retorted the other. "The sun is invisible, when the leaden moon comes between it and us. This music is too inspiriting, Miss Ross; am I reduced to the necessity of seeking another partner?"

"I am sorry I can't say 'no,'" said she, laughingly.

Mr. Lacy was bent upon expelling the regrets reflection might beget; and wiled into confidence by his gentle endeavors to induce a trust in him as a friend, Ida spoke freely, though not unguardedly, of feelings and thoughts which had been so long hushed, that their speech was slow and imperfect; but he interpreted and prized their stammered story. As the night wore on, exhausted couples dropped in, and there was an end to connected conversation. It was as well, for both were forgetting where they were. Morton relinquished his chair to Ellen, and stood by her, and Lynn sank, playfully, upon one knee before Ida.

"Take care!" was his whisper. "Serpents coil in rose-thickets."

"What do you mean?" inquired she, struck and chilled.

"That we are the most tenacious of that to which we have the most meagre title."

"A masculine Sphinx! speak out!" she demanded.

"Miss Read could enact Oedipus to this riddle. Seriously, Ida, beware of that woman! She courts Lacy's society. I do not know what the ladies' verdict is—to us it is as plain as that he does not like her half as well as he does you. Do not avoid him; he deserves your favor; but do nothing to uncover her eyes—blindfolded by her egregious conceit."

"Lynn! you confound me! What have I to do with Mr. Lacy! I have no interests which would war with hers, were they ever so strong. Having nothing to lose, I have nothing to fear. I am obliged to you for your brotherly cares," she added, roguishly. "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind."

"You know it, then!" exclaimed he, his large eyes splendid in their flash of intelligence and rapture.

"I am not insensible or indifferent, where the happiness of my friends is concerned," she rejoined, in the same confidential tone.

Another gleam thanked her.

Ellen Morris was what is termed, a "taking girl." The high, gay spirit, which had distinguished her among her comrades at Mr. Purcell's won her distinction in a world willing to be amused. She had objectionable traits, but there was also much that was admirable and loveable about her. If her over-weening fondness for merriment offended, it was easy to forgive one, whose lively sense of the comic was inbred and irresistible. Still, it was a marvel that the impassioned Lynn should recognise in her the embodiment of his poetic dream of woman. They met before he went to Europe, and the tricksy sprite of a school-girl was not dislodged from his memory by the lures that tried him there. He came back to find a blooming maiden preserving the fresh, joyous grace which had captivated him in the child—and loved! as men seldom love—as women often do—with an abandon of affection, an upyielding of every faculty and thought to the dominion of one sentiment—a love that brings gladness to few hearts, and breaks many! many!

Had he asked Ida, with the disinterested equanimity, some suitors we wot of, display, what course she would advise in this momentous matter, she would have responded with a sister's candor, "she does not suit you—rid yourself of your entanglement;" but it was too late;—she must hope with, and for him. In payment for his cautionary remark, she hinted, that, situated as they were, misconstruction and jealousy might be formidable foes to his peace of mind:—that neither smiles nor frowns were unerring indices of a girl's heart. He scouted the implied suspicion.

"Jealous of these popinjays!" glancing disdainfully at the black coats and white vests in attendance, as if he thought they contained wound-up automata.

"The danger does not appear imminent;" said she. "See that you retain this satisfied state of mind."

Her countenance fell, and he heard Josephine say, simperingly—

"How dramatic! pray, Mr. Holmes, is this a rehearsal, or a real performance?"

"Most ladies are so versed in love affairs, as to understand the symptoms at a glance;—is not your eye sufficiently practiced?" asked he, with a curling lip.

"No, sir. I regret to say that the gentlemen of my acquaintance are not sentimental or politic enough, to get up such scenes."

"I have no doubt you do deplore it."

"Why, Mr. Holmes!" ejaculated Ellen, with her gleeful laugh; "how ungallant!"

"You mistake. It was a skilful combination of veracity and politeness. I must coincide with her, and am pleased that it can be done without violence to my conscience. I wish I could propose a cure for the evil you lament, Miss Read, but I am afraid it is irremediable. Men are obstinate animals."

Ida, alarmed, touched his foot; and the lynx eyes saw the slight movement. A deadly light glowed there for an instant, and was extinguished in softness, as she assailed Mr. Lacy.

"'In what far distant region of the hall.'

have you kept yourself all the evening, Sir Truant?"

"Polyhymnia and Melpomene!" muttered Lynn.

"I have been a fixture in this room most of the time;" replied Morton.

"How selfish! had you no sense of duty? could you not sacrifice your ease to secure the enjoyment of your friends?"

"It would argue ridiculous vanity in me, to suppose that my absence has detracted from the pleasures of the assembly; and from the aspirants for the smile of the reigning belles, so unimportant a personage is not missed."

"Can he like her?" thought Ida. "There is still an air unlike other men, but he does not act or speak as he did to me. He looks amused but very careless. Oh! why must we have two faces?"

"Why did you stop me just now?" queried Lynn, pettishly. "I do not fear her; I am rather anxious she should know the extent of my dislike."

"How will that benefit either of you!" inquired Ida.

"Don't play the saint! much consideration you owe her! I am a good hater:—I cannot fawn and smile upon one,—woman though she is—beggared in principle and heart. She is capable of anything. Mean and tyrannical—those who deal with her, must be tools or enemies,—I choose the latter alternative. I will not hear any justification. Don't I know—cannot everybody see, that she is the trouble of your life,—that she would murder you, but for the cowardly dread of detection!"

"You will counsel me next, to sleep with pistols under my pillow;" said she. "What an array of horrors you are manufacturing?"

"It is as true as Gospel. Why disclaim it? Charley told me of the vixen before I saw her; he can be civil—I cannot—and what is more—will not!"

"He sees, perhaps, that animosity to my friends may be an engine to inflict suffering upon me;" answered Ida, thinking of Mr. Dermott.

Lynn coloured. "He intimated as much. I have not his self-command; he is a better, because a more unselfish friend than I."

"I have no fault to find with you;" was the reply. "It is a comfort to feel, that come what may, I have two brothers to depend upon."

Charley was leaning upon the back of her chair, and this remark was made partly to him. Lynn pressed her hand, as he recovered himself from his lowly posture, but there was as much meaning in the kind gaze of his undemonstrative friend. Their affection was a rill of pure water, stealing through a region of artificial light and bloom; and people pretended to, or did misinterpret it. Josephine credited, doubted, and was impatient by turns. One of them was the lover;—they were too friendly to be bound upon the same errand. Lynn's manner was most unequivocal—but his attentions to Ellen! Charley was not a marrying man—that was settled—everybody said; but the tender respect he paid Ida; the watchfulness that protected her from impertinence and neglect, were weighty offsets to this popular decision;—and again, opposed to these, were his disinterestedness in surrendering his post to Lynn, or any agreeable companion, who sought it, and the absence of uneasiness in his observation of her belleship.

Ida laughed at her mystification, as did those who effected it,—frequently concerting some manoeuvre, by which to lead her further into the labyrinth. If Charley made one of the family in the evening, the morrow brought Lynn to drive or walk. Charley lent her books, and imported a writing-desk from Paris, upon hearing Mrs. Dana say that Ida had made a fruitless search through the city, for one of a particular description;—Lynn appeared to have laid down the brush for the spade and pruning knife, so abundant were the bouquets, left with Mr. Holmes' compliments; and the walls of her chamber were adorned with pictures, from subjects proposed or approved by her. But amidst the frolicsome action of this drama, was collecting matter for another, to be closed only with Life,—to be remembered, perchance, with Eternity; and the chief actor danced and sang and sported, unaware of the importance of the dawning era. All her life a dreamer, she did not observe that the enshrined ideal was shaping itself into the real;—that the far-off future, her hopes had sprung forward to greet, as if to meet it half-way would hasten its lagging pace, was merging into the brightening present. She had expected the summer to burst upon her, with fragrance and music and sunshine, and took no note of the swelling buds and violet perfume of Spring. And here, let not him, who is wearied by the labors of Autumn, or numbed by the frosts of Winter, close our humble story, with a lofty scorn, or scathing displeasure at the prospect of a "love-tale." Rather let him unfold his shut-up heart, and read there of his own glad May, its dancing shadows, fairer than the oblique sun-rays that fall open his beaten track;—of the rosy June, the redemption of its young sister's promise:—and looking sadly upon its dust-eaten blossoms, think, with loving pity, of flower-cups which hold the dew-drop now,—soon to fade and shrivel as these have done!

---

[CHAPTER XIV.]

It had been predicted from the premature beginning of the winter's gaieties, that an ebb would occur before the Southern carnival, Christmas, and the party-goers resolved to falsify the prophecy.

Mrs. Dana called on the afternoon of the 24th to invite Ida and Josephine to dine with her. "You will see only ourselves and Mr. Holmes, who is Charley's shadow."

"A stupid set," was Josephine's reflection. "How pleasant," Ida's; and their answers corresponded. The former, "very sorry, papa would always dine at home, Christmas-day; he held it to be a religious duty she verily believed," laughing affectedly, "and he could not eat unless she were there."

Ida said, "I will come with pleasure, thank you," and lost all but the main purport of Miss Read's apology, in an eager whisper from Elle, who was with her mother.

"I don't hear, will I 'please come to what?'" lifting her to her lap.

Elle put her arms around her neck, and her mouth to her ear.

"To your molasses stew!" said Ida, "indeed I will. When is it to be?"

Another important whisper.

"Josephine, are we engaged for to-morrow evening?"

"I do not know," she replied, shortly.

"I hope not," said Mrs. Dana. "Elle's head is full of her frolic. I was describing to her the molasses stew I had every Christmas, when I was a child, and nothing would do but I must promise her one for 'being a good girl.'"

"She deserves it, I know," said Ida, fondly. "I will come, Elle, if I leave fifty grown people's parties."

"Will you, too?" asked the child, going up to Josephine. Mrs. Dana pressed the invitation.

"I am not certain, but I have engaged to go somewhere else," said Josephine, smiling heartlessly into the pure little face. "If I can, I will do myself the honor, Miss Dana."

The wretched attempt at playfulness actually frightened Elle, who shrunk again to the side of her friend.

"Are you serious in promising to go to this babyish fal-lal?" snapped Josephine, the minute Mrs. Dana was gone.

"I am."

"Did not you hear that Anna Talbot is to receive company to-morrow night?"

"Yes; and I am rejoiced that Elle's invitation was earliest. There are Anna and Ellen Morris."

"I haven't time to stay," exclaimed the young lady, throwing herself upon the sofa. "You both must spend a sociable evening with me—a Christmas jubilee—egg-nogg, country-dances, etc. We are to have a high time. You are disengaged?"

"I am," said Josephine, promptly, "and if I were not, I could not resist the temptation to send a 'regret,' and go to your house."

"Thank you—and you, Ida—may I count upon you both?" drawing up her cloak. Ida declined courteously;—"she was engaged to Mrs. Dana."

"Oh!" began Anna, disappointed.

"Is it not too silly!" interposed Josephine. "It is a child's party—a molasses stew—think of it!"

"You are joking, Ida," said Ellen, "excuse yourself to Elle—we want you!"

"Not as much as my little cousin does. I cannot break my word to her."

"Little cousin!" smiled Anna. "I thought the relationship was closer. I will not give up the hope of persuading you. The nicest beaux in town are to be there—Mr. Thornton, Mr. Russell, and Mr. Villet, and Mr. Lacy, and a score more—do come!'"

"I cannot!" said Ida, with a pang.

"Papa will not be pleased with our going out separately;" said Josephine, that night.

"He does not object to my going to Mr. Dana's alone;" was the response.

"Thinking of number one, as usual, my amiable lady! I tell you what! I shall not demean myself, by playing puss-in-the-corner, and smearing my hands with treacle, when I might be at Mr. Talbot's, in decent company."

"As you like. If you represent the character of the company to your father, he will probably insist upon your mixing with them."

"He! he!" tittered Rachel, who was in waiting. Josephine flounced out of the room.

"Christmas gift, Miss Ida!" Her maid stood at her bedside, in the grey morning light. "Christmas gift!" called out the passers-by, as they encountered each other in the street "Hurrah for Christmas!" shouted squads of boys, at the corner, to a brilliant accompaniment of pop-crackers.

Ida heard it all, with a spirit out of tune with mirth. No gifts were prepared for her; the Thanksgiving-day was one of mourning to the homeless. She had anticipated a visit from Carry, during the holidays; but her last letter had dashed the hope. "Mammy" was recovering from a severe fit of sickness, and she would not leave her. Ida wished she were not to dine at Mr. Dana's; she was not fit for society, and sad enough, without the sight of joys, which reminded her of her losses and wants. In this discontented mood, she went down stairs. No Christmas yet! Mr. Read grunted to her formal bow, and Josephine said "the coffee was cold—it had been on the table so long." Mr. Read finished his second cup, and pulled out his pocket-book.

"People will be asking if I made you a present. Thank goodness! Christmas comes but once a year. Two would break a man. There!" fillipping a roll of notes to his daughter. "Don't waste it upon gimcracks and finery. If women had to earn money, they wouldn't be so crazy to spend it. You must have some, I suppose:" and he laid a smaller bundle upon Ida's plate.

"No, sir! I have money of my—" but he did not wait to hear her through. As she quitted the table, Josephine pointed to the untouched "present."

"Take it, if you choose!" said Ida, contemptuously. "I am not a dependant or a beggar!"

Josephine loved money, and pocketed it. "And the old curmudgeon is none the wiser!" chuckled the dutiful daughter.

Ida stretched herself upon a lounge, and set seriously about reasoning herself out of her despondency. She thought of Carry, and Lynn and Charley; but they came reluctantly, with selfishly happy faces; with their schemes and amusements and dearer friends. Mr. and Mrs. Dana pitied her;—this was the spring of their kindness! and her haughty soul winced at the idea. Hope and Fancy crept, with trailing wings, into hiding-places until the sun should shine out—she sullenly hugged her misery. What visionary who reads this, but has suffered from these morbose fits?

"Well?" said she, tartly, as Rachel tiptoed across the floor.

"I thought you was asleep;" replied the sable damsel.

"I am awake—do you want anything?"

Rachel rubbed her chin, gave her turban a twitch, and fumbled in her pocket "Law! I ain't lost it, I know! It must be in my bosom!"

Ida, awakened by her movements, watched her as she produced a tiny packet from the last-mentioned receptacle. With an odd compound of awkwardness and affection, she slipped a ring upon her mistress' finger.

"Thar! it fits! don't it?" intensely complacent.

"But where did you get it, Rachel? is it for me?"

"For you, and nobody else, Miss Ida. I was determined your nose should not be made a bridge of by everybody; so I've been a savin' my spare coppers—(and no servant of yours wants for 'em,) and when you was admirin' that ar ring of Miss Josephine's, I says to myself—'She shall have one!' and when I'd cleaned up your room, I took off down town to the jewellerers—and thar 'tis—wishin' you a Merry Christmas, and an ever-lastin' Happy New Year, ma'am!" stepping back with a flourishing courtesy. Ida tried to smile at her peroration, and failing, burst into tears. Rachel was transfixed. She was not used to hysterics, and had never seen her mistress weep before. Her consternation was a speedy restorative; and Ida finally made her sensible that she was not grieved or displeased, but overjoyed at her gift. Then the voluble Abigail recollected "somethin' else" she had to communicate.

"Ain't that tall gentleman, with black whiskers, that visits here so constant, named Mr. Lacy?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. When I went into the jewellerer's he was a standin' at the counter, buyin' a pair of gold spectacles—for his mother—I reckon. I heard him say they was for a lady. I asked for the rings, and the shop-boy gave me a string of brassy, ugly things—and says I—'I want a handsome one, sir, for my mistis.'

"'Your mistis!' says he. 'Them's plenty good for her!'

"'Are these the best you have?' says Mr. Lacy, sort o' frownin' and talkin' like he was his master fifty times over.

"'No, sir—would you like to see some?' says the boy, turnin' white.

"'Bring them!' says Mr. Lacy; and when they come, he told me, with the sweetest smile, and so respectful! 'These cost a great deal of money—do you know it'?' So I showed him what I had, and he said 'twould do. Bimeby, I picked out two, and could not tell which was the prettiest. I kept a-lookin' at one, and then at 'tother, and says he, 'Can't you choose between them?'

"'No, sir,' says I.

"'I think that the handsomest;' says he, pintin' to one, and that's it you've got on your finger, this minute, Miss Ida. He seed that low-lived boy give me the right change, and when I curchyed and said, 'I'm mightily obliged to you, sir;' he said, 'You are welcome,' just like I'd been the Governor! We colored folks know a gentleman when we see him, and he is a real born one."

The ring was very elegant, and the blood mounted to Ida's temple's, as she toyed with it.

"Perhaps, it was not Mr. Lacy?" said she, in a tone of extreme indifference. "Where had you met him, that you know him?"

"I never met him nowhar. I seed him one Sunday, when he walked home with you from church, and I was at the up-stairs window, and once through the dinin'-room door when he was here to supper, and once—through the parlor window."

"Peeping! Rachel! If he had seen you, he would not think as highly of your manners, as you do of his."

"Peeping! Law! Miss Ida, them was sly glimpses, permiscuous-like, you know. He warn't a-gwine to catch me."

A longer inspection of the ring. There was no blush this time, but the smile was happier. The motive was then as pure as the action was generous. The little shower had purified the murky atmosphere. This token of remembrance, at a moment when she believed herself forgotten, was none the less dear that the donor was a poor slave. It was the fruit of self-denying affection; and had no sooner clasped her finger, than it acted as the Open Sesame to a store-house of untold riches. "It has taught me more than one lesson," she murmured.

Rachel was garrulously happy.

"I do-clar, Miss Ida, you've been gettin' prettier ever since I come in;" said she, standing off to survey the effect of her toilette. "I hope thar'll be a crowd at Mars' John's. Is it a dinin'-day?"

"No—a family party."

"That's a pity! I 'spect that's another present! It never rains but it pours."

The footman said Mr. Dana was below. Charley waited to escort her to his brother's; and Ida began to realise, as he paid the compliments of the season, in a style, eminently "Char-leyish,"—that Christmas had indeed come.

"Christmas gift! Christmas gift! cousin Ida," shouted two infantine voices; and Charley the less, and Elle scampered down the porch-steps to salute her. "Now mamma! now for the tree! She is here!"

"Oh! Mrs. Dana! have not they seen their tree? What suspense for the dear creatures!"

"It was their wish; and their father would not consent that the door should be unlocked until the family were assembled."

"Here is the last straggler!" exclaimed Lynn, springing into the group, shaking hands with his friends, and kissing the children. "We are all here!"

At a given signal, the door of the mysterious room was unfolded, and revealed the tree; its precious load glittering and gay in the clear winter day. Headed by "papa," and closed by the nurse and baby, the procession performed a circuit, and then formed a ring. Uncle Charley was distributor; accompanying each gift by an appropriate remark. For Ida, there were a pair of ear-rings from John Dana; a bracelet of fair hair, which did not require the simple "Carry" upon the chased clasp, to signify from whose brow it had been shorn; a handsomely-bound edition of Shelly's works—Lynn's taste; Charley gave a card case, a Chinese curiosity, and evaded her thanks and praises by pointing out a resemblance in the most grotesque figure, carved thereupon, to himself, a circumstance, which he protested, induced him to select it. Among the white buds of a perpetual rose-tree, hung a card—"Elle and Charley to their dear cousin;" and Mrs. Dana finished the list with a rose-wood work-box, supplied with every implement of female industry.

"Is this being friendless?" asked Ida, inly, looking at her acquisitions. "For the rest of the day, I will be grateful and contented."

The morning was spent in the nursery. On Christmas day, its door could not bar intruders; there were no men or women; all were children, Charley whipped his namesake's top; rocked the cradle; and instructed Elle in domestic economy, as he helped arrange her baby-house. The dinner-bell, rung an hour earlier than usual, on account of the wee ones taking that meal with the "big folks," was faintly heard in the din of a famous game of romps. The afternoon was less noisy; the children fell asleep, wearied with frolic; the gentlemen walked out; Mrs. Dana was busy; and so it was, that Ida sat alone in the drawing-room, at nightfall, watching the passing of the pink light from the clouds, and thinking—"Everything to gladden me, and yet ill at ease! murmuring soul, be still!" And then she wished for the society of a calmer mind, that should speak peace to the heavings of her unquiet spirit; for the comprehensive charity, the benign philosophy, which hoped for the best, and argued for the right—this was her version of the outgoing of the woman's heart—"Would he were here!"

But Elle's friends came early, and she had no time for higher thoughts than filling small mouths with bread and butter—"run-the-thimble," the vexed question of "how many miles to Babylon;" and "Chicken-me-chicken-me-craney-crow;" pastimes, whoso barbarous names cause the refined juveniles of this precocious '54, to join their gloved hands in thanksgiving, that their lot was not cast in those times! As the dignified master of the house deigned to participate in the ceremonies, we trust our heroine will not suffer a very grievous letting-down in the opinion of these formidable critics, for the prominent parts she assumed. A circle was ordered for "Fox and goose." Charley played Reynard, and Ida, goose the first. The children enjoyed, without fully understanding the game, and she had to keep the character longer than the laws prescribed. Round and round they flew—circling and doubling—the spectators screaming their applause—and she ran directly against a gentlemen who was entering. Her impetus was such that she would have fallen, but for his extended arm. A laughing voice said something, unintelligible in her confusion.

"Oh! Mr. Lacy!" cried Elle. "I was so afraid you wouldn't come!"

"I promised—did I not?" said he, stooping to kiss her.

"Yes, sir, but I thought maybe you'd rather go to Miss Anna Talbot's party, like Miss—"

"Elle! Elle! no, no!" whispered Ida, in time to suppress the name.

"You see I had rather be at yours;" he returned, without noticing the unfinished sentence. "What are you playing?"

"'Did you ever see a wild goose
Sailing on the ocean?'"

sang Charley.

"'The wild goose's motion
Was a mighty funny notion.'"

he added, aside to Ida.

No forced spirits now! The innocent fun—the converse of the social circle, after the little ones had gone—the walk home, beneath the tremulous stars—the "good night" and pressure, whose thrill lingered in her fingers 'till sleep sealed her eyes—all were sources of unutterable pleasure—pleasures born from one influence—flowing from one presence.

A month later, Josephine returned from an evening concert, with a violent toothache, the consequence of the sudden transition from the steaming hall to the ice-cold air without. She tossed and groaned in agony through the night; by morning the pain abated, a relief for which she was wickedly ungrateful, when she beheld reflected in the mirror, a tumefaction of the cheek, nearly closing one eye, and otherwise marring the symmetry of her features. The pain came back at intervals during the day; and with fretfulness, threw her into a fever. Dr. Ballard was sent for. It was late in the evening when she awoke from the slumber, gained by the anodyne he administered. The rain was plashing against the window; there was no other sound except a subdued murmur of distant voices. There were visitors in the parlor—who had ventured through the storm? Her sharpened senses caught manly tones—tones she thought she recognised; and then Ida's rippling, joyous laugh smote her unwilling ear. The conversation became lower and more serious; and she could endure no more. Unmindful of health and prudence, she hurried on a dressing-gown, wrapped a shawl about her head, and glided down stairs, as stealthily as a cat. The front room only was warmed and lighted, but the folding-doors were ajar. Mr. Lacy stood by the mantel, hat in hand, yet in no hurry to depart. He was playing with a rosebud he had plucked from a vase near, but as unconscious of its beauty as of the lateness of the hour. The expression with which he regarded the earnest speaker before him was not to be mistaken. It even seemed that he would have it understood, for a proud smile trembled over his mouth, as her eye avoided his.

Josephine felt turned to stone. By a singular fatality, she had, up to this time, remained ignorant of the growing intimacy between these two. We have seen that many of their interviews were unknown to her, although some of them occurred in her very presence; and Ida, in obedience to Lynn's caution, had guarded against any appearance of rivalship. Now, jealousy and perception awoke together—at one sweeping glance backward, she saw herself slighted—foiled—duped! and she grew faint at the sight of the frightful results of her lack of vigilance, which rushed overwhelmingly upon her mind. Her native shrewdness soon came to her aid. Matters were not so desperate. There was no word of love;—she breathed more freely. "Not yet! not yet!" she hissed, under her breath;—and the small hands clenched in passionate resolve, as she added—"never!" The leave-taking was full of feeling, but friends parted as kindly. The outer door clanged to; and Ida sank into her chair. Buried in the cushions, she sat, looking into the blaze, a smile of ineffable tenderness illumining her face; her cheeks bright with unwonted scarlet. The patter of the rain upon the panes but lulled her into deeper reverie. And in contrast to a foreground so rich and warm, in its glowing colors and balmy air, and dreams of love and hope—was the dark, chill background, with its shape of evil, hideous in her distorted features and glowering hatred. Ida stooped suddenly. It was to pick up the bruised bud Morton had dropped. She looked around hurriedly, and with a more vivid blush, raised it to her lips, and hid it in her bosom.

"Rose-buds are not the only things which are played with for a time, then trampled under foot, as you shall learn ere long, my love-lorn damsel!" said the wily schemer, stealing back to her chamber.

"With us, now, it is war to the death!"

---

[CHAPTER XV.]

Nothing appeared less likely, at this period, than the fulfilment of Lynn's prognostications of his destiny. He collected encouragement and praise at every turn. A Bayard in society—a Raphael at the easel, he bore a distinguished part in the lionization of the day. He sped well, too, in his wooing. A quick fancy and impressible heart could hardly resist the attractions of his person and genius; and the spice of coquetry, generally predominant in Ellen's disposition, lay dormant, as she hearkened to the voice of love. She made but one reservation in pledging him her troth—that their engagement should be secret. He would have had it proclaimed through the land—he so joyed in the bliss he had won; but he bowed to the scarcely uttered wish, respecting the maiden modesty that dictated the request. To Ida and Charley it was divulged. He would not accept a happiness they wore forbidden to share. For a few brief weeks this knew no shade or diminution; but a change came. Ida discovered it; but he was silent, and she would not extort confidence. It was a trial to see his clouded countenance and fitful spirits; yet she knew his peculiarly sensitive organization, and hoped the evil was magnified by its medium. In this hope she finally persuaded him to speak.

They met at a Fancy Fair. Ida was in an embowered recess, Mr. Lacy for a companion, and Charley hanging around to play propriety. Lynn entered alone, and did not attach himself to any person or party. He marched from end to end of the room, with folded arms, and a dogged look, too foreign to him, not to impress one unpleasantly. He perceived Ida after awhile, and acknowledged her presence by touching his hat, with no loss of gloominess. Ida was distrait; even Mr. Lacy failed to charm; and he was aware of it He guessed, too, from the direction of her eyes, the working of her thoughts, and proposed a visit to the refreshment table, which stood in the path of the promenaders. Lynn could not brush by without speaking. The first tone of Ida's voice affected him. The dull black of his eyes became lustrous, and the long lashes fell over them to conceal the momentary weakness. She would not let him go. She asked him questions without number or meaning, not waiting for answers, until she had eaten her ice; when she gave her glass to Mr. Lacy, and with an apology, his eye said was unnecessary, took Lynn's arm. He confessed all, as she had determined he should. It was a common tale; the scrupulousness of a love, made up of delicacy and truth, and the thoughtless trifling of a girl who felt her power;—so she explained it, but the young lover mourned the death of his first-born hope.

"I would as soon speak lightly of my dead sister, as tamper with her affection," said he. "Your excuse that she does these things to try mine—if you are right—proves that she never loved me."

"But why did I say she applied the test? In girlish caprice—foolish enough—but harmless as to intention. Have you forgotten what women are in their 'hour of ease?' if danger or sorrow menaced you, she would stand by you to the last. She loves you, Lynn,—I am assured of this."

"Not so am I. I called there this evening. She had promised to accompany me hither, but she was 'engaged with company!' Those addlepates, Pemberton and Talbot were there, doling out their senseless prattle; and she was gracious to them, repellant to me. If Pemberton were not a puppy, I would not sleep before I crossed swords with him. She waltzed with him last night. I had told her that I would not invite any lady, whom I respected, to engage in that most disgusting of dances. Conceive of my feelings, when, within the hour, I saw her whirling down the hall in his arms! And the coxcomb's insufferable impudence! if he thwarts me again, I will cane him!"

"You will not! Go and see Ellen to-morrow, when there is no one to annoy you, by preventing a private interview. Set before her the unkindness, the want of generosity apparent in her conduct; assert your rights with dignity, and your resolution to uphold them."

"I would not pain her, Ida. She has chosen the easiest method of undeceiving me; better this, than a life-time of misery to both. She said, the other day, to a gentle reproach for an open slight, which would have offended a vainer man, mortally, that she did it to mislead others. 'A young lady,' she remarked, 'sinks into a cypher, if it is suspected that she is betrothed. I have not had my lawful amount of admiration yet.'

"'Ellen!' said I, 'I have loved you as man never loved woman before; have believed you pure and high-minded. If I thought that the despicable coquetry you insinuate, caused you to insist upon the concealment of our engagement, I would trumpet it to the world, and then break it myself!'"

"Lynn, remember where you are! You are too harsh; it was a jest."

"The manner displeased me most, and to-night, when I saw those fops—could I be patient?"

Their conversation and saunter were prolonged.

"Are you going home to-night?" asked Josephine, gaily, hailing them in one of their rounds. "They are extinguishing the lamps."

Ida changed color as she saw that she had Mr. Lacy's arm. Lynn observed it, and waited for her.

"You are fast walkers—go on," said Josephine, at the door. As they passed, Ida had a view of Mr. Lacy's features. They were so pale and rigid, that she started. He answered her look of apprehension with one that froze her blood.

What had she done to draw down that stern, yet sorrowful rebuke?

"The look you wear
A heart may heal or break."

Her pillow was damp that night.

Mr. Thornton had obtained a signal victory in his first important cause. Already, his legal acumen and oratorical powers marked him in the public eye for usefulness and fame; and on the evening after the delivery of the verdict, he called together a band of select spirits to rejoice with him. The banquet was well ordered; comprising the rarities of the season, and a variety of wines, varied by the introduction of agreeable non-intoxicants, coffee, tea, iced sherbet, etc. These unwonted accompaniments of a bachelor supper were looked upon with an evil eye by some of the guests. They were jealous of innovations which might end in puritanical abstinence; and their fears were further excited that three of their small number preferred the less stimulating beverages. That Mr. Lacy's example should be copied by Mr. Compton, a fellow-student, was not surprising, as they were intimate, and known as members of the same church; but at Charles Dana's rejection of the social glass, there was a hum of exclamations and inquiries, which was calmed by his imperturbability, and the polite tact of the host. Morton could not unriddle the conduct of his friend, for he knew that his most trivial action was not meaningless. "Not a convert, Charley?" he said, when the rest were in full cry after some inspiring subject.

"Unfortunately, no. It is from a motive of expediency that I abstain to-night."

They sat together, and as he spoke, Mr. Lacy chanced to remark Lynn, who was opposite. He drank deeply, but his potations had not had time to ignite the fire that burned in his eyes and checks. His talk was a volcanic eloquence, reckless as to course and consequence; and his laugh had the peal of a maniac's yell. In real alarm, Morton turned to his neighbor. Charley was on the alert; not outwardly—he might have been more grave and taciturn than common, but there were no evidences of anxiety. Morton divined his feelings, by a glance he saw exchanged between him and his heated friend; a look of warning and appeal on one side,—of anguish, scornful in its bitterness, on the other,—and the torrent rolled on as before.

During the giving of toasts, Mr. Lacy and Charley fell into a quiet chat, only pausing to lift their glasses in courtesy to the authors, ignorant, most of the time, of the sentiment proposed. Lynn was more sedate; from delirium he was relapsing into a comatose state, when he was brought to his feet by a toast to his art, coupled with a neatly turned compliment to himself, from Mr. Thornton. His unpremeditated reply was beautiful and touching. He was under the very spur of genius; rich metaphors, apt classical allusions, and delicate pathos poured from his lips, as thoughts from his brain; his rapt hearers scarcely conscious that he employed the machinery of words. The applause that succeeded the last musical echo was deafening. For a moment, the wild glare that had distressed Morton, disappeared, and with a happy, grateful smile, he bowed his thanks for this spontaneous tribute of approbation and regard.

"Egad!" said Pemberton, "you have mistaken your calling, Holmes—you had better burn up your canvass, and take to stump-speaking, you'd make more money by it."

Angry frowns and rebuking eyes were directed to the drunken speaker.

"If stumps and blockheads claim kindred, I shall not need to go far to exercise my vocation," said Lynn, hotly.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the other, with a violent affectation of derision.

"Don't be frightened, gentlemen! Mr. Holmes and myself have wrestled upon another battle-field, and I can afford to forgive him, from the soreness of his defeat. Your friend and instructress, that loud-tongued virago, Ida Ross, could not have uttered—"

Like a wounded panther, Lynn cleared the table at a bound, and grasped his throat. A general rush was made to the spot, and they were parted before either sustained serious injury. Pemberton had drawn a dirk at the attack, but it was wrested from him by Mr. Lacy. Reconciliation was impossible in the excited state of the combatants. Charley prudently withdrew his friend, relying upon time and reflection to prepare the mind of each for overtures and concessions. Lynn did not speak until they reached his room; then, extricating his arm from Charley's hold, he demanded in a high tone, what had been his object in terminating the conflict. "If not finished there, you know it must be somewhere."

"I do not see the necessity," was the reply. "It is a drunken broil, of which you will be ashamed to-morrow. No man in his senses would have noticed him as you did. He shall have a cow-hiding for his last speech; I would not disgrace a more honorable weapon by using it against him. I am mortified, Lynn—I hoped you were learning to control those childish fits of passion."

"Am I to be crossed and bullied forever by a meddling fool? Is it not enough that he has helped to wreck my peace, but he must taunt me with it?" cried Lynn passionately. "He ought not to live, and I do not care to!"

"You certainly are not fit to die." said Charley composedly, "or you would not rave so like a madman. Be sane for five minutes; by what means has your happiness been put in his power?"

Lynn was a humored, wayward child, and this cold severity did more to quiet him than an hour's rhetorical pleading. Charley listened with knitting brows, to a rehearsal of his story to Ida, and an account of that day's interview with Ellen. She was dressed for a ride with Mr. Pemberton, and exasperated by this new example of her disrespect to him in encouraging a man he despised—Lynn had spoke hastily—angrily. She retorted with equal warmth, and after a turbulent scene they parted. Pemberton arrived as he was leaving, and his malicious twinkle told that he comprehended and enjoyed the state of affairs. Like Ida, Charley had never heartily approved of this match; but his indignation towards Ellen was none the less on this account. He saw, in her behaviour, the most culpable flirting, and he said so to Lynn. He shook his head sadly.

"Convince me of that and you destroy my faith in woman. No! I believe she once fancied she loved me; but I have become obnoxious to her. It is my fate. The last dream of hope is over—I have nothing to live for now."

He covered his face with his hands. Charley remained with him all night, an uninvited visitor. His host neglected him entirely, never speaking, and seemingly unmindful of his presence. Whenever Charley awoke, he heard him pacing the floor, or saw the outline of his figure, dark and still, at the window, gazing into the black night.

"You will not do anything in the settlement of this nonsensical matter until you confer with me?" requested Charley, on saying "Good bye."

"I shall not move in the affair," was the laconic rejoinder.

"You will acquaint me with Pemberton's proposals?"

"If I think proper—yes—you shall know in good time."

Charley was going out, and did not catch the exact import of these words. He proceeded with the business of the day, comparatively at ease. Knowing Pemberton to be an arrant coward at heart, bully as he was, he did not fear a renewal of the subject from him.

Ida was alone that evening. Mr. Read was in the country; and Josephine, having waited until visiting hours were over, went off to bed. Ida liked to sit up late, but she usually preferred the snug comfort of her room to the parlors. To-night she lingered over a book, reading and musing, with a tincture of gloom in her thought-pictures. She was pondering upon the instability of earthly plans and hopes. "How true that the brightest light produces the deepest shadows!" The words arose unexpectedly to her lips. In the loosely-linked chain of reverie, she did not know that they had their origin in the memory of a slighter circumstance than a word—in a look.

Rachel was coming to see after her, and hearing a ring as she tripped by the front door, opened it. A man handed her a package saying, briefly, "For Miss Ross," and instantly vanished. Ida saw Lynn's hand in the superscription of the bulky parcel, and broke the seal. Two letters were within it; one directed to Ellen Morris; the other,—enclosing a miniature—to herself.

"My best, truest friend!" she read, "I cannot trust myself to speak the farewell my heart indites to one who has been a loving and faithful sister to me. It would unman me, and I have occasion for all my manliness at this juncture. I have no regret in the prospect of leaving a world where my horoscope was cast in clouds and storm;—I cannot undergo the pangs of seeing your grief. Destiny will be accomplished, Ida, however insignificant the instrument with which it works. Charley will inform you of the baseness of that which has severed the one shining thread of my existence. Heaven grant you may never know the hatefulness of life, when that for which you thought, toiled, lived, is torn from you! I have struck the reptile who trailed over my Eden-flowers, and reared his head insultingly amid the ruin he helped to effect, and in his unspent malice he would sting me to death. The sting of death is gone! there will be unintentional mercy in the stroke that releases me. I have been mad—I am calmer now. If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil; I shall not attempt his life—I will not imbrue my hands in the blood of the murdered.

"You will give the enclosed to my poor Ellen—'my Ellen!' she has forbidden me to call her by that name. It may be, she will pity, when no more, the wretch she could not love when living.

"My sister and friend! what can I say to you? Forgive my ingratitude in being willing to die before I have made some feeble return for your goodness! Will you wear or keep this image of him, by whom you were never forgotten—not in the death-agony? I have written to Charley, but he will not receive the letter until all is over. I was unwilling to risk this—its contents are too sacred. You are dreaming in your innocent slumbers, of years of peace and joy—I shall not close my eyes but in the sleep that knows no awakening to care and woe. 'The blessing of him who is ready to perish' be upon you!

"Lynn."

Ida's impulse was to scream for help; but ere her palsied tongue did her bidding, the futility of all attempts to save him stared upon her; the hour—nearly midnight; the illness of their man-servant; Mr. Read's absence; her ignorance of Lynn's locality or plans beyond his suicidal intention—towered, frowning spectres, mountain-high, each with its sepulchral "Impossible!" Some women would have swooned—some sunk down to weep in impotent despair;—the shock over, her energetic spirit rallied to meet the emergency. He should be saved! at the peril of her life, if need be—what were personal convenience and safety?

Charley—the sagacious, collected friend—what mortal could do, he would—she must see him. Rachel had not spoken, terrified by her mistress' expression and manner. It was a relief to aid her in any way; she brought, without a second's parley, the cloak and hood Ida ordered, and equipped herself to attend her. "Take the key," said Ida, as they went out of the door; and they sped on their way. The night was dark, and for whole squares not a light was visible. Half of the distance to Mr. Dana's was traversed without encountering a single being, when they approached a lighted doorway, in which two gentlemen were standing. Fearing to attract their attention by her hurried gait, Ida slackened her pace, and pulled her hood over her face. She heard one say—"If the spasms do not return he may not want watchers to-morrow night;" and a feeling of security stole upon her. The friends of the suffering would not molest her, whose mission was one of mercy. A few squares further on, they were met by a watchman. Rachel made out his badge of office through the obscurity, and pressed to her mistress' side. The man stopped. His keen eye discerned her color.

"Your pass!" said he, confronting Rachel.

"Her mistress is with her," answered Ida, emboldened by the exigency.

He bowed respectfully, and pursued his beat. Ida's heart throbbed loudly, but she stifled her fears by a reconsideration of Lynn's extremity of danger,—"it was no time for nervous failings." Rachel did not possess such a tonic, and had seen every shadow, heard every rustle of the breeze.

Before their adventure with the dreaded "guard," she had known that one of the gentlemen above-mentioned had taken the same route with themselves; keeping, however, upon the other side of the street; and after Ida's ready response removed her apprehension of "the cage" and Mayor's court, she saw him still upon her track—worse! crossing towards them. Overcome with terror, she clutched her mistress' arm, and by a frantic gesture, directed her to the object of alarm. He was within six feet of them; and startled by his proximity, and the fright of her attendant, she stood still. A minute of breathless suspense, and the stranger was at her side.

"Miss Ross," he said, in a low but confident tone. "This is a strange hour for a lady to be in the street with such attendance!"

His stern, cold address could not repress her thrilling pleasure.

"Oh, Mr. Lacy!" she exclaimed, clinging to his arm, and giving way, for the first time, to tears. "Life and death depend upon my action—the life of one very dear to us both—you would not reproach me if you knew—"

"Ida! dear Ida!" said he, mindful only of her sorrow. "Can there be reason for this excessive grief? Your fears have misled you. Of whom do you speak?"

She could not speak quite yet, but her sobs were subsiding under his soothing.

"Will you not trust yourself and our friend to me, Ida?"

She looked up. "Yes," she said, simply.

He put her hand within his arm. "First, tell me where you are going."

"To Mr. Dana's."

"For what purpose?"

"I have something to tell Charley."

"I will be the bearer of your message. Let me see you home;—you shall give it to me on the way."

She obeyed submissively as a child.

"Now!" said he, as they turned back.

"I had a note from Lynn to-night. It is worded so ambiguously,—contains so many allusions I do not understand, that I can glean but this—he has quarrelled, and been challenged;—they fight to-morrow, where or when I do not know, nor the name of his opponent. It is all a horrible mystery."

It was more clear to him. He related the incident of the altercation at supper, suppressing Pemberton's use of her name.

"Oh! can it be! he will not stoop so low! And he will die! he declares his solemn determination not to resist the attack. His life is thrown away!"

"Not if man can prevent it—I promise you this much. When did you get this letter?"

"Not an hour since."

"Why did you not send to Charley or me?"

"Mr. Read is away, and John sick."

"What is the tone of the note? revengeful?"

"Oh, no! he says expressly—'If I know my own heart, I wish him no evil.' He writes, weary of life, and relieved at the thought of getting rid of it."

"'Getting rid' of the life God has bestowed!" repeated he, indignantly. "Forgive me, Ida! yet you cannot tolerate this sentiment! Does he believe in an hereafter? Does he allude to it?"

"No—but he does believe—I have thought, sometimes, with more than the intellect. Do not judge him hardly;—he has suffered much of late; more from morbid sensibility than actual troubles, but he imagined his woes too heavy to be borne. He is not fit to cope with sorrow."

"None of us are, 'till we have been taught the uses of affliction. This recklessness is, you think, more an impulse than a purpose?"

"I am sure of it."

"He will be more manageable then," he replied encouragingly.

The wind blew roughly, and he folded her cloak around her.

"I recognised you by this, and your walk, and fearing lest you might encounter rudeness in your nocturnal ramble, kept you in sight. I heard your voice at the watchman's challenge, and concluded to declare myself your protector. I have been sitting with a sick friend."

Ida did not know herself when they stopped at the door—her uneasiness all gone, and with it the unnatural strength that impelled her venturesome step—he had assumed the burden; and he was so strong and sanguine, it did not oppress him. With the mild authority which had checked her tears and reversed her design, he bade her "dismiss anxiety, and rest quietly until morning, when he would send her glad tidings." And with the same childlike docility she repaired to her chamber, and betook herself to slumber.

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[CHAPTER XVI.]

In the bosom of the forest, the tall oaks girdling it, like a band of mailed warriors, changed by the spell of beauty from assailants to a guard, lay a little glade, free from brush or sapling; its tender green carpet freshening in the March sun. The trees loved the dance of the shadows over that sylvan ball-room, and they revelled there all the day, and at evening, slept upon the turf in the moonlight. The clouds of the night had rolled away before a westerly breeze, and the forest was full of sweet and pleasant sounds. The oriole had come in advance of the season to look for his last year's nest; the woodpecker thrummed upon a hollow trunk; and the robins, too busy for more than an occasional note, flew about with sticks and mud in their bills. The teeming earth was quick with vitality; you could hear the unfurling of the grass-blades, the rustle of the leaf-buds as they broke ground.

An inharmonious sound interrupted the concert—the rattle of a carriage. It stopped; then another drove up; and six gentlemen, three from either side, entered the glade, saluting each other as they advanced. Lynn's friends were Mr. Thornton and Mr. Villet; Pemberton's Talbot and another of "the set," by the name of Watson. Without wasting time in irrelevant chat, the seconds walked apart for consultation. Pemberton, with a braggadocio air, offered his cigar-case to his companion; and nothing abashed by his dignified gesture of refusal, planted himself against a tree, and began to smoke. Lynn paced the little area in silence. He was haggard to ghastliness; the effect of a night of sleeplessness and racking thought. He was brave; his nerves did not tremble in the hour of peril; but the soul, forced, before its time, upon the verge of an unknown sea, shook with a nameless dread of the punishment of its temerity. Early teachings, and the convictions of later years weighed upon him. A tiny wild flower blossomed by his foot—he plucked it, and pressed its petals open with his finger. Whose hand had fashioned it? Whose sun kissed it into bloom? Whose goodness granted it this lovely home? It owed its little life to the Father, from whom he had derived his poet-soul; it had fulfilled the end of its creation;—he was about to hurl his gifts, a million times more precious, into the face of the Giver. He would gladly have courted other thoughts, but these would come; and long-forgotten texts floated before him; apparently without a cause to call them forth. One met him, wherever he looked—"Despisest thou the riches of his forbearance, and love and long-suffering?" And as he repeated, "despisest thou"—another—"Behold, ye despisers, and wonder and perish!" These words were upon his tongue, as Mr. Villet put the pistol into his hand, and motioned him into his place.

Pemberton had sent the challenge, with no thought of its being accepted, counting upon the interference of Lynn's friends. Mr. Thornton had waited upon him with his principal's answer, settling time, place and weapons; driving him into a corner, from whence he could only escape by following out his own proposition. A strained sense of honour was Lynn's birth-right. His father had died upon the field; and repudiation of the duellist's code involved censure of him. Thus they stood, face to face, upon this unclouded, fragrant spring morning, to wash out in blood the memory of a trifle which would have perished of itself in this time, but for the pains they had taken to perpetuate it. Oh, Virginia! most fondly loved of mothers! how often has thy soil drank the blood of sons, the tears of daughters, whose lives and weal have been sacrificed to this pitiless Moloch!

Mr. Talbot explained that the signal was to be the dropping of a handkerchief, after he should have counted three slowly. Mr. Villet held the handkerchief "One—two—" said Talbot, deliberately. Lynn had only time to see the murder in his antagonist's eye, when a report rang through the forest, and he felt a sharp pain in his breast and arm.

"Treachery!" shouted Thornton, excitedly. "Shoot him down, Holmes! he deserves a dog's death!"

Lynn's hot blood was up—he raised his arm. The loaded and discharged pistols were whirling in the air—and Charley Dana and Morton Lacy threw themselves between the combatants.

"At whose instance was this meeting brought about, gentlemen?" questioned the former, peremptorily, scanning the group.

"The challenge came from my principal," answered Watson, with a brazen look.

"Will you honour me by a minute's private conversation, sir?" asked Charley, facing Pemberton, with a sneer seen by him alone. "You need not be afraid," he pursued, not receiving an immediate reply, "I do not carry concealed weapons."

Pemberton went aside with him very reluctantly. He respected, because he feared Charley. Without a correct understanding of his character, he stood in awe of the keen ridicule and calm courage, for which his blustering was no match.

"You must be at a loss for something to do, that you covet such business as this;" began Charley. "I have no objection to your blowing your brains out—and any coroner in the country would decide that an inquest would be 'much-ado about nothing;' but it is another matter when you try, in cold blood, to take the life of one, who has some pretensions to the name of man. You are a cowardly poltroon! If you are on the look-out for insults, there is one, if truth can insult. Two policemen are at a little distance. The law will have a more serious job than I anticipated. There are five witnesses to the fact, that you fired in advance of the time. Join this to your provocation of the other night, and your having sent the challenge; and it will not require a Philadelphia lawyer to make out a case, which will put a stop to your murderous propensities for awhile. Now, sir, what do you propose to do?"

The bully shook visibly. "Really, Mr. Dana, this is an extraordinary procedure. You and I have no quarrel."

"I beg your pardon—men of honour do not pass over such remarks as I have indulged in. You did not hear me, perhaps; I said, and say now, you are a pitiful poltroon! shaking in your shoes, this minute, at the prospect of the penitentiary, and the loss of your soap-locks. But before I give you into the keeping of your lawful guardians, I have a proposal to make on my own account. I came here with the intention of giving you a castigation for your impertinent mention of a lady. I will not fight a duel with you, but if you resist, I will take care you do not shoot me. I meant to horse-whip you, and I will—within an inch of your life, if you do not make an ample apology. You cannot bully or blarney me, Pemberton. We know each other."

In abject terms, he declared that he had the highest veneration for Mr. Dana's friend, Miss Ross; he was in wine at the time spoken of, and was unaware, until told of it, that he had mentioned her—

"That will do!" interposed Charley. "Are you ready to rejoin your friends?"

"You will not do me this great injury, Mr. Dana! think of the exposure—the disgrace! A duel is an honourable affair, if carried out; but when it takes a turn like this, you will admit it looks confoundedly mean."

Charley could not but smile at his ludicrously pathetic tone.

"Will you bind yourself to behave better to your superiors—Mr. Holmes included—if I help you out of the scrape?"

The pledge was eagerly given.

"Your best plan will be to state to the company that, in consequence of explanations made by me, you retract the challenge, and likewise the offensive remark that provoked Mr. Holmes to assault you. Offer your hand to him, with the best grace you can muster; jump into your carriage—and you shall not be pursued."

The seconds were huddled together, talking of the novel phase of the affair; Lynn and Morton walking to and fro; the latter speaking earnestly, while Lynn's averted face showed he was not unmoved. Pemberton obeyed instructions to the letter; and with a trepidation and hurry which nearly betrayed Charley into a disgrace of the dignity of the occasion. After a grasp at Lynn's hand, he bowed hastily, summoned his attendants, and disappeared among the trees. The crack of the driver's whip proclaimed his departure. Thornton and Villet were profuse in their inquiries, but they were little wiser for Charley's replies. An exclamation from Morton interrupted them.

"You are wounded!" said he, pointing to Lynn's arm, from which the blood was oozing.

"Only a scratch," replied he.

Charley ripped up his sleeve; uncovering a flesh wound of no great depth. The ball had passed between his side and arm, grazing both;—its aim was the heart.

"If I had seen this sooner!" said Charley, involuntarily.

"What if you had?" inquired Lynn.

He made no reply, but proceeded to bind up the wound. "Gentlemen!" said he, when he had done;—"your carriage and breakfast are waiting. I take it, you have nothing more on hand this morning."

Thornton and Villet bowed, half-offended; Lynn lingered. "How are you going back?" he asked of Morton, but looking at Charley.

"Our horses are not far off," answered the former, kindly. "We will see you again in an hour or two."

"Coming!" responded Lynn, to his friends' impatient call. He looked again to Charley's grave face, beseechingly and timidly; but could not summon courage to break the silence.

"Do not punish him too severely, Charley," said Morton. He turned from him without speaking. He had never seen him so affected before. They were alone in the glade; and the birds, silenced for a time by human voices, were heard again twittering in the boughs. Charley spoke at length.

"I have been deceived, Lacy. I thought I knew men, and was prepared for any inconsistency; but if I had been told that the man, cherished for years as a brother, would mislead me purposely in a matter of vital importance to us both, I would not have credited it. I had his promise, or what amounted to a promise, that he would not stir without consulting me. What weakness!" he continued, more agitated, "to abandon fame and friends and life, because of a fancied slight from a woman!"

"Yet are we guiltless of similar failings?" said Morton, impressively. "Have there not been times when we too were impatient—despairing—for no more weighty cause? My dear Charley, let us judge leniently errors into which we might have fallen, but for greater strength or less powerful temptation. Disapproval and forgiveness are not incompatible."

"You have witnessed the one—will you be the bearer of the other!" asked Charley, trying to smile. "I will not oblige him to ask it. He has had humiliation enough for one day."

Mr. Lacy's first care, upon their return to the city, was to dispatch a note to Ida. It merely announced the success of their expedition; the means adopted to secure it, she gathered from Charley. They had gone together, first to Lynn's then to Pemberton's lodgings, when Charley had been informed of the projected meeting. They were reported "not at home." They then hit upon the unpromising expedient of going to every hackstand in the city, to ascertain, if possible, at what time the party was to start in the morning, and its route. They failed, in two or three cases to arouse the keepers; and from others received unimportant and early replies. Charley had just asked, "Do you mean to give it up?" and been answered by a firm "Never!" when a negro bustled by them. Morton seized him by the shoulder, and led him to an apothecary's lamp.

"I thought so!"

"I've got a pass. Let me go!" said the fellow, struggling.

"Not until I know where you have been. You are Mr. Talbot's servant—you may gain something, and shall not lose, by answering me civilly. What were you sent for!"

By smooth and harsh words, he was brought to acknowledge that his "young master" having had company all the evening, had forgotten, until late, to send him to a livery-stable to engage a carriage for five o'clock next morning.

"Who is with him, besides Mr. Pemberton?" inquired Mr. Lacy.

"Mr. Watson, sir."

"How far are they to go, after crossing the river?"

"Lor! Massa! how you reckon I know?"

"No trifling, sir! If I wanted to create mischief, you have said enough. Tell me everything, or I will go at once to your master!"

The man instantly named their destination, which his master had let slip in his hearing; and added that they were "fixing pistols." The information was corroborated by a call upon the liveryman, and they acted upon it. The delay, which was so near being fatal, arose from their ignorance of a newer and shorter road than they chose.

"How Lacy guessed their intentions, I cannot imagine," said Charley. "He would not entrust to me the name of his informant; and Lynn is as much in the dark. He brought your letter to the door after he was sure you had retired and mine was left upon his desk. But Lacy is discreet from principle, not from caprice."

"He is," said Ida with heightened color. "If any stigma attaches to the informer, it must rest upon me."

"Just like him, noble-hearted and faithful!" exclaimed Charley, when her story was ended. "Shall you tell Lynn?"

"Yes—if only to show him how his friends love him. He may view it as a breach of confidence, but I had rather he should reproach me, than suspect the innocent."

Whether he reproached her or not, the revelation did not diminish his regard for her. Except at their first agitating interview, he never adverted to the unfinished duel; but he seemed drawn to her by a new tie, in the recollection of her readiness to adventure so much in his behalf. Ellen Morris had left town for a visit to Petersburg, the day after the rupture:—left without a message or line of penitence or conciliation. Lynn did not complain, but his moodiness subsided into a pensiveness, illumined by the flashes of his former animation, like the sparkle of smouldering embers.

It was during one of these gleams that he spent the evening at the rendezvous of what Josephine styled the "Dana clique." John Dana and his amiable wife were great favorites of his and Mr. Lacy's. Their friendly calls may have been more frequent because it was Ida's chief visiting place. Mr. Dana was in New York, and she had dined and taken tea with her friend.

Lynn came in with Charley, and the latter, excusing himself for an hour after supper, left Ida and the young artist together.

"I have been thinking lately, how sublime a thing is philanthropy," said Lynn, throwing himself with boyish abandon, upon the rug at her feet. "I welcome this train of thought as a sign, that I am growing less selfish, for I have been sadly, sinfully selfish, Ida—madly intent upon my schemes, my happiness—forgetting that God placed me in the world to benefit others. Lacy was in my studio to-day, and we had a talk upon this subject. He says there is always a reflex tide of the happiness we send forth to those around us; a purer, truer joy than self-gratification. 'In this respect,' he observed, 'we can best imitate the example of our Supreme Benefactor.' Imitate our Creator, Ida! that is something worth living for."

"You have much besides, to make life precious, Lynn. I remember when it seemed worthless to me; when I thought I had tasted all the sweetness it possessed—I have changed my opinion since."

"Ah! but you have never bowed soul and spirit to an idol, and 'found it clay;' never realised in the dread hour that saw its demolition, that the fairest growth of heart and mind—the plants which you flattered yourself were climbing heavenward, had only twined themselves with strengthening tendrils about the altar of that one love! I know the meaning of the expression, 'broken cisterns, which can hold no water.' I have felt for some time past as if my heart were a stagnant marsh, flooded by wasted affections. To-day I have been happier, more hopeful. I will begin life anew, and strive for my art and for my kind."

"I have often told you that you have rare qualifications for usefulness," rejoined Ida. "Your besetting fault is unsteadiness of purpose; the best resolutions avail nothing if they are not adhered to."

"I know it. I dare not say now, that I will keep my present frame of mind until to-morrow; but I do feel as if a broad field were spread before me, and a bright, bright heaven over-arched it. I can think and speak of Ellen; I comfort myself by imagining that our separation is for our mutual good—our characters required discipline, and dimly in the future I see visions of reconciliation and re-union." Poor boy! the idol was not gone yet! He sat in an attitude of careless grace, his hand supporting his cheek, and the light falling upon his upturned face. "Yes," he continued, thoughtfully. "I am convinced that my life has been spared for some important end, and I will work it out, whenever Providence designates the ways and means of its accomplishment. I do not overlaud my ability; for youth, and health, and energy, are almost omnipotent, and I am young, and strong, and willing."

"You will not be offended if I aid you in the work?" asked Ida.

"No; and I anticipate your warning. You would say that self-conquest lies at the base of all other victories. Ah! you will yet be ashamed of your incredulity as to my regeneration. That is Charley's voice, he has brought Lacy, too! I am glad!"

Ida was more than glad. She had seen him since their midnight walk, but Josephine's presence had debarred her from even a look of acknowledgment.

Mrs. Dana came down stairs, and completed the fireside group.

"What have you two been prosing about?" asked Charley, presently.

"I have been talking—Miss Ida listening," said Lynn. "She has no faith in my determination to play 'good boy,' and as she knows me better than I do myself, I am uneasy for the durability of my excellent resolve. Do say something encouraging, Lacy."

"What is this reformation? of mind or manner?" inquired Morton.

"Mind, manner, heart and will. I have been a wilful troublesome child all my life; I mean, from this time forward, to be a man."

"And how are you setting about it?"

"Oh! I am theorising now. I have no distinct object, except to do the best I can; to mortify evil passions, to uproot selfish desires, to foster the germs of good in myself and others."

Mr. Lacy smiled, a little sadly. "You have undertaken a Sisyphus task, if you heave the stone up the hill in your own strength."

Lynn looked dismayed. "Yet it is our duty to do all this. The Scriptures, for whose infallibility you contend, set a higher standard of faith and practice than I have done."

"But they tell as in so many words, 'Ye can of yourselves do nothing.' Who can say, 'I have made my heart clean—I am pure from my sin?'"

"You do not agree with the fanatics who denounce morality, I hope," said Charley. "I heard one hold forth last Sabbath. He told us 'our righteousness was as filthy rags.' I had read my Bible, and knew that; but he heated Gehenna seven times hotter for 'ye miserable moralists' than for the vilest outcast that ever dishonored the image in which he was made. I make no pretensions to piety, but I endeavour to do my duty to my fellow-men; to hate none, and help all. I go to church because I think it right, if only for the example I set to others; I don't expect my good works to be a passport to heaven; but I thought, as I listened to him, that his orthodoxy and zeal, without charity, would profit him nothing."

"You were probably nearer right than he;" said Mr. Lacy. I do not decry morality. Reason teaches us that the benevolent citizen, the honest tradesman, the kind parent and husband, find more favour in the eyes of a righteous judge than the rioter, the cheat, the debauchee and tyrant. Much injury is done to religion by the mistaken zeal of its advocates. This was not the spirit of its Founder. To me, the history of the young ruler, who came to Christ, is one of the most affecting in the New Testament. He was not driven away by disheartening rebukes; but 'Jesus, looking on him, loved him.' How tenderly must he have uttered—'But one thing thou lackest!'"

"But how unnatural is the finale!" said Lynn. "'And he went away sorrowful, for he had great possessions.' He let his lucre outweigh his soul!"

"Take care how you condemn!" said Charley. "There are 'possessions' besides silver and gold, which clog a man's steps. Love of pleasure has ruined more souls than love of gain."

"And procrastination more than both together;" added Morton.

Ida looked at Charley. "Do you remember our conversation after the protracted meeting, last summer?" asked she. "I felt, when you spoke of Death and Eternity, that I could never close my eyes again in peace; but the impression wore off; and we are here, to-night, it may be, no better prepared for our inevitable change than we were then."

"Yet we are content to hunt for the motives of this inconsistency of belief and action, instead of rectifying it!" said Mr. Lacy, seriously.

"You predestinarians may excuse us upon the ground that we are waiting the 'set time;'" remarked Charley.

"God's time is 'now;'" answered his friend. "'To-morrow' comes with a note of warning—'Boast not thyself of to-morrow;' 'To-day is—to-morrow is cast into the oven.'"

"You have battered my scaffolding, and not provided me with another;" cried Lynn. "You say I am helpless, yet cry, 'the night cometh!'"

Mr. Lacy took a Bible from the table, and handing it to Ida, requested her to read aloud the passages he pointed out.

"'Then said they unto him; What shall we do that we might work the works of God? Jesus answered, and said unto them: this is the work of God that ye believe on him whom he hath sent;' and 'Knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ, even we have believed in Jesus Christ, that we might be justified by the faith of Christ, and not by the works of the law.'"

"Thank you," said Lynn. "Then I am to do nothing?"

"Nothing as yet, but believe and trust. Having enlisted in the service, you will not be left idle. But I am overstaying my time; I engaged to meet a friend at half-past nine, and it is nearly ten. I had rather stay here, but good night, nevertheless."

"And I have not thanked him!" thought Ida, disappointed—but—

"Miss Ida!" called Charley, from the porch. "Come, see this cloud!"

A pile of snow-clouds was heaving up towards the moon, which fringed their jagged outlines with silver, unearthly bright from the blackness below.

"You would say, 'gloomily beautiful;'" said Mr. Lacy.

He was close beside her, and approachable as ever; and Charley held Mrs. Dana and Lynn in conversation. In one sentence, she expressed her sense of obligation, and her regret that he had had so much trouble in executing her commission. His face was in the shade, but she felt his look.

"Nothing is a trouble to me, that promotes your happiness."

She went back to the parlor, with a tumultuous joy at heart. The full significance of his words she did not understand till long afterwards.

"Mr. Lacy should study for the ministry;" said Mrs. Dana.

"He does more good as he is;" replied Charley, stoutly. "If all Christians performed their duty as well, you and I would live to see the Millennium. He can reach men, who would fly at the glimpse of a white cravat. There is some charm about the man; his religion is a part of himself; and he carries it everywhere he goes. I have seen the wildest fellows I know, cluster around him, and introduce the subject, for the pleasure of hearing him talk. He knows when to begin, and when to leave off. He says plain things to me; I might knock down another man who took the liberty; I thank him, and am sincere in so doing."

"I love to listen to him; but he makes me very uncomfortable;" said Mrs. Dana.

"It is so with me;" responded Lynn. "Our conferences always leave me out of humour with myself, and envious of him."

"I think the secret of his influence lies in his humility and charity;" remarked Ida; "in his not holding himself so far above us 'deluded worldlings,' as certain of his brethren. He believes there is good in all; not that he is all-good."

"These all-good people are too apt to slam the door of Heaven, as soon as they are on the safe side, themselves;" answered Charley. "Lacy would be willing to see the whole human race saved."

"Who would not?" laughed Ida.

"'Who would not!' why, I honestly thought, before I knew him, that many professors of religion,—those of his denomination, especially—would be sorely chagrined at an event so opposite to their calculations."

"I wish I were as certainly 'predestinated' as he is;" said Lynn, with a smile and a sigh.

"I cannot quite subscribe to your 'election' principles; but if I were altogether such an one as he seems to be, I should consider my chance pretty safe;" returned Charley.

"You are not going, Ida!" remonstrated Mrs. Dana. "Stay all night with me."

"I cannot. We shall have a snow storm to-morrow, and I might be detained several days."

"No great harm if you are!" said Charley.

"Not if I have duties which call me home? I will come again shortly, but I must go now."

Charley, as host pro tempore, got his hat; and Lynn followed them into the street, with, "I hope I don't intrude!" The tempest was near at hand; the gust that buffeted them at the corners made them stagger. Lynn forced Ida to take his arm also, and in this style they breasted the storm, gaily. Ida looked out after them, before she closed the door. They hurried along, arm in arm, their merry voices borne back to her by the wind, after the darkness swallowed up their forms.

The snow fell steadily all the next day, and the next.

Josephine was "blue;" her name for ill-humor—"bad weather always made her blue," Mr. Read had a twinge of the rheumatism, and was amiable accordingly. Ida wrote a long letter to Carry; read Charley's last budget of books; and watched the snow-flakes; enjoying the perfect quiet, and freedom from interruption. Upon each evening, she sat by her window, until she could not distinguish the boundary between the leaden sky and the white earth; and the snow, she had been brushing off all day, banked up against the glass. "Heigho! we dreamers have some pleasures more sensible people know nothing about;" said she, as the tea-bell sounded the second night. "It will seem so dark and dreary below after the society that has cheered my sanctum!"

The ice was breaking up below, in a hail-storm, which had all the sharpness of a conjugal "difference," without the stinging politeness genteel people throw into their wrangles. Ida listened and sickened and sighed. A pealing ring checked the disputants. Ida's heart fluttered, and Josephine looked up anxiously at the footman's entrance.

"Mr. Dana, to see Miss Ross."

"Of course then, I shall not go out;" said Josephine, haughtily.

Ida ran into the drawing-room. "Oh! I am so glad to see you!"—but his look stopped her short. "You have bad news! Carry!" she articulated, sinking into a chair.

"No: Carry and Jenny are well; but I am come for you. Our poor friend Lynn, is very ill."

"Ill!" said she, incredulously.

His lips quivered. "Very ill!"

"Lynn! brother!" A mist fell over her sight—then cleared, as one long choking sob relieved her burdened breast. Charley raised her.

"There is no time to lose."

"I am ready."

Mr. Read and Josephine came into the hall at the bustle.

"Miss Ross! may I presume to ask whither you are going, on such a night?"

"To see a sick friend, sir!" returned Charley, as dictatorially.

"Whom sir, and where?"

"My friend, and she is under my protection;" said he, impatient at the detention. A carriage was waiting. Ida asked one question—"When was he attacked?"

"Within three hours after we parted from you. He stayed with me at John's that night; complained before retiring, of thirst and chilliness; and awoke with a raging fever. The doctors pronounce the disease inflammation of the lungs, of the most virulent nature. He had a lucid interval this evening, and asked for you."

She did not say, "Is there hope?" She knew there was none.

Charley exchanged a word with the servant who opened the door, and led the way directly to the sick-chamber. Mrs. Dana met her with a tearful embrace; she saw no one else, but the figure upon the bed. But for the dark circles about the eyes and mouth, the unmistakeable signet of Death, he might have seemed in perfect health. He appeared to be asleep, until she stood at his pillow; then opened his eyes upon her horror-stricken face, and made an effort to smile.

"Ida!"

"Dear Lynn!"

His breath was short "I am almost gone. Give my farewell to Ellen,—I forgave and loved her to the last. Bury her miniature with me. I have done with earth."

He closed his eyes. They brought a cordial. His wistful glance ran around the room, and returned to her.

"What is it, dear Lynn?"

Oh! the mournful intensity of that look! and the clammy fingers clasped hers. "I did not think I should die so soon! Is Lacy here?"

He came forward at her sign.

"I am dying—I have not time to search for myself—see if there is any promise for me!"

"Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out;'" repeated Mr. Lacy, instantly. "'He is able also, to save unto the uttermost all them, who come unto God by Him,—seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'"

The fading eyes were re-lit with eagerness.

"Is that there? did He say so, or did you?"

"He said it, who declares, moreover, that He is not willing for 'any to perish but that all should turn and live.'"

His dying gaze was upward, and his lips moved in prayer.

"To the uttermost—the uttermost!" he whispered. "'Lord! remember—me,—when Thou comest—into—Thy—'"

He sank into a stupor; and the physician administered another stimulant. He had besought them not to permit him to sleep while reason lasted. One and another had come in, on hearing of his danger, and the room was nearly filled; but there was not a word or loud breath, to distract the meditations of the parting soul.

Charley and Mrs. Dana were nearest him on one side, Ida and Mr. Lacy, on the other. He looked at them fondly.

"Friends! dear friends! 'There is a friend—'" to Lacy.

He finished the sentence—"That sticketh closer than a brother."

"Yes:—I remember—who is able to save—to—the—utter most—" his voice died away. When next his eyes moved, it was slowly and painfully; but their restless light was not extinct. The stiffening mouth contracted.

"He says 'Pray!'" said Ida to Morton.

Every head was bowed; and the opening sentence of the prayer brought a deeper quiet to every heart.

"'Lord! Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations!'"

The language was simple, scriptural and fervent,—the pleading of a son, in behalf of a brother, with an indulgent Parent. As he repeated the text, Lynn had dwelt upon, Ida felt the feeble pressure of his hand;—he was alive and conscious then. The rest arose at the "Amen." She had not knelt; but she did not raise her head from the pillow;—her soul had caught the farewell of his, as it flew away upon its long journey! There was a movement through the room—a breathless pause—a solemn voice said "He is gone!" and tears and sobbings broke forth.

His hand still held hers; and the other was folded over them in supplication;—the eyes still looked heavenward—but they were fixed.

Dead! dead! in his glorious beauty—in the flush of youth! deaf to the recall of mourning hearts—and the awakening echoes of the fame his genius had won! If he could die, who was sure of an hour of life.

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[CHAPTER XVII.]

Ellen Morris accepted an invitation to Petersburg, ere the angry pique, aroused by Lynn's reproaches, passed off. The promise was hardly given, when she would have revoked it, had not pride held her to her word. Her friends were solicitous, that the far-famed hospitality of their city should not seem to the Richmond beauty, to have been vaunted too highly; and she appreciated their efforts; but the fortnight she had named as the period of her stay, crept slowly by. She hoped confidently to see her lover again at her feet, when the heat of passion was over; yet she was wretched in the recollection of her trifling, and the misery it had inflicted upon his high-toned spirit. Twice she prepared to write to him, and end a suspense torturing to both,—and twice dashed down the pen in shame and pride. The wished-for hour of departure arrived. The morning was bleak; the snow had ceased falling, but the clouds were low and threatening. Her entertainers begged her to wait but a day longer.

"If it were a matter of life and death, you could not be more obstinate," said her hostess, fretted at her unreasonableness.

"And how do you know that it is not?" answered she, jestingly.

"It is no joking matter, Miss Ellen," said a young man, gravely. "They have not cleared the snow from the track as it ought to be done. You would feel badly to have your neck broken."

"That is a trifle compared with a broken heart;" and she laughed lightly.

The train started, and the shivering passengers resigned themselves to a comfortless ride. Ellen's escort, an elderly gentleman, lost no time in settling his chin and ears down in the collar of his great coat, and the rest of his body in a corner, to sleep. She was wide-awake; and her spirits, raised by the near prospect of the meeting, her hopes had fed upon, for weary days and nights, found amusement in the uncouth figures, seen by the struggling light. She did not suffer from the cold or damp; her pulses bounded warmly; and when tired of being a solitary looker-on, she closed her eyes, and beguiled the time by fancies of home and him; whether he too were repentant; if he did not show it, rather than lose him, she could humble herself to lure him back;—she could not be happy without the assurance of his love. She would tell him how miserable their parting had made her; and imagination revelled in the anticipation of the refreshing flood, her thirsting heart would receive in return. There were pictures of days, which should fleet by like a dream;—when doubts and fears should be lost in perfect beatitude; the dingy, smoky cars were metamorphosed into their cottage home, with its music and flowers and birds, and its atmosphere of love;—and the votaries of his divine art thronged to offer incense to him—her peerless one!

The halting of the laboring engine startled her. The drowsy travellers gathered themselves up; and elbowing and grumbling, rushed out. She lifted the window. They were at the Depot. Half-frozen officials stamped their toes and blew their fingers; hackmen swore at their horses and the porters;—now and then, a pair of watery eyes peered into the cars, in quest of some expected one; but the form she looked for was not there. "Pshaw! how could he know when she was coming? how silly not to recollect this!"

"There is no one here to meet you, Miss Ellen," said her companion, re-entering.

"I hardly expected it, sir; if you will be so kind as to get a carriage for me, I will not trouble you further."

Her smile thawed the old man's churlishness. He volunteered, his foot upon the step "to see her all the way home;" but she would not consent.

"I am not afraid; this kind 'uncle' will carry me safely."

The driver scraped and grinned, although his woolly whiskers were hoary with rime. "Pity all women can't be agreeable!" said the escort, trudging through the drifts, to his hack. That a gentleman of his temperament was ever otherwise, even on a raw morning, did not occur to him.

An omnibus blocked up the street;—Ellen's carriage was behind it, and the driver's objurgative eloquence retarded, instead of quickening the movements of its proprietor, who was stowing away baggage upon the roof.

"Hallo!" cried a young man, to another, who was knocking the snow from his boots against the curb-stone. "When did you get in?"

"Just now. Horrid weather for March!—isn't it? Any news going?"

"Not a bit—all frozen up—ah! yes! Lynn Holmes is dead."

"What! not the artist! when did it happen? I saw him on the street a week ago—another duel?"

"No—lung fever. He died night before last, after forty-eight hours' illness."

"Shocking!"

"Ellen! you are white as a sheet!" was Mrs. Morris' greeting. "My dear child—are you sick?"

"No ma'am—only cold—oh! so cold!"

"Come to the fire."

"I think I will lie down awhile—I am chilled to the heart!"

The servant, who carried her breakfast, reported her asleep, and the careful mother would not let them waken her. Later in the day, she took a cup of hot coffee up to her. She was motionless; her head covered.

"My daughter!" said Mrs. Morris, softly, drawing down the coverlet.

She looked at her, but did not speak.

"How do you feel now?"

"I don't know, ma'am."

"You are not quite awake yet, I believe," said her mother, smiling. "Here, drink this—it will do you good."

She took it.

"By the way, my dear," continued Mrs Morris, busying herself with the folds of a curtain, which did not hang to suit her. "I have melancholy news for you. Our friend, Mr. Holmes, died suddenly, night before last. I never was more astonished and grieved in my life. He was such a handsome, promising young man, and so attached to us! I said directly how sorry you would be to hear it. You were so much together—where are the pins? oh! here they are! His disease was a rapid inflammation of the lungs. The funeral will take place at the church this afternoon;—some of us must go, if the weather is bad. Do you think you will be well enough?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Well—I hope so; and now I will go down and keep the children still, so that you can sleep."

The thunder of a thousand cannon would not have disturbed her. She heard and saw all that passed; but in place of heart and sense, was a dead vacuity, empty and soundless, although it had engulphed thought and feeling. She went to the funeral. Prudent, appearance-loving Mrs. Morris, dexterously flung a veil before the stony eyes, whose tearlessness people might observe, and wonder aloud, as she did mentally, at "Ellen's want of feeling;" but her daughter quietly raised it. The church was crowded. The untimely end of one so gifted and popular, thrilled the community, as the breast of one man. All was as still as the grave; the roar of the busy city-life deadened by the heavy atmosphere and cushioned earth. The wail of a clarion stirred the air;—nearer and nearer it sounded; and the plaintive breathing of other instruments; and at long intervals, a single roll of the drum;—nearer and nearer—they ceased, and the procession moved up the aisle. First walked Charles Dana and his sister-in-law, clad in deep mourning as for a brother; then Morton Lacy, pale and sorrowful, and on his arm another black-robed figure, (such privilege had Friendship above Love!) then a small band of fellow-artists; and the coffin! borne and followed by the Masonic fraternity, of which he was a member. It was set down in front of the pulpit; "the Book," with its drapery of black crape, laid reverently upon it; and the service proceeded. There were prayers and hymns and a sermon; she heard none;—the coffin lay in her sight—his coffin! It was not! Where then was the vigorous life which moved the still form within it? where the soul of splendid imaginings and lofty aspirations? where the heart, with its wealth of feeling? they could not die! He lived still—and living, loved her. That narrow coffin was a horrible mockery. And so, when the cover was removed, and those, who from curiosity or affection, desired to look for the last time upon his face, filed slowly by it, she arose too. He was there! royally beautiful, even in his prison-house; the rich black locks swept back from the marble temples; and a smile resting upon the lips. Oh! what power bears woman up in a moment like this! Her life—her world was shut in with the replacing of that lid; but she saw each screw returned to its place, without a tear or a shudder;—herself, proposed to her mother, that they should follow the corpse to its home; and watched them heap the snow and clods upon it. And through that and many succeeding nights, she stood in the attic, in cold and darkness, straining her eyes towards where the gleaming tomb-stones were visible in the day, and fancying she could tell which shadowed an unsodded mound.

Charley was his friend's executor. In the fulfilment of his trust, he found a casket marked—"To be given, at my death, to E.—M." He thought of sealing it up, and sending it to her with a note from himself; but decided upon further deliberation, to entrust it to Ida. It was a painful duty. She was not able yet to speak of Lynn without distressing emotion. His decease was so sudden, so awful,—snatched, as he was, from her very side, with the barest intimation of his danger, after months of intimate intercourse. She mourned for him as sisters and friends seldom weep. Charley did not command. "She was the more proper person," he said; "but he would not grieve her by enforcing the request."

"I cannot meet her!" said she. "He was so dear to us—how can I endure the sight of her indifference? They say she was calm and careless while they were burying him."

"Calm—she certainly was; but the glance I had at her face assured me not careless. I am much mistaken if she was not the greatest sufferer by that grave. I was angry with her, previously; I believe now that she merits our compassion."

Yet it was an unwilling heart that Ida carried to the interview. Ellen sent for her to come to her room. "I am busy, you see," said she, with the ghost of a smile. Ida held the precious legacy more tightly, as she noticed her occupation. A ball-dress was spread upon the bed, and she was fastening roses upon the skirt. Her cheek was white, as Ida glanced at her own sad-colored dress.

"You are going to the party to-night, then?" said the latter.

"Yes—will Josephine attend?"

"I have not heard her say—have not inquired—have not thought of it."

Despairing of broaching the subject in any other way, she took the casket from under her shawl, and laid it upon the dress.

"The living forget sooner than the dead, Ellen!" was all she said.

The unhappy girl recoiled at the familiar characters upon the lid, and stretched out her arms with an imploring cry. Ida reached her as she fell. She had fainted. Charley's words were verified, and Ida blamed herself severely for her cruel abruptness. Her tears ran fast, as she strove to restore consciousness "Oh! Ida—Lynn!" groaned Ellen, reviving. Reserve, pride, self-control were borne down;—they wept in each other's arms. With the casket pressed to her bosom, Ellen heard his last message, and the hopeful words he had spoken of the future, he was not to know upon earth.

"I did love him! Heaven is my witness—I did love him!" she cried, anguishedly. "He did not condemn me; but I can never forgive myself! If I could have seen him once more to tell him so! Dead! oh! that I were in the grave beside him!"

This was grief without a glimmer of hope. Ida had no word of comfort.

Ellen's eye fell upon the gossamer robe.—she threw it upon the floor, and trampled it "I hate it! and myself, and everything else! I am a hypocrite! a lying hypocrite! with my hollow smiles and broken heart. Leave me! go! or I shall hate you!"

Ida left her thus—writhing under the scorpion-lash of remorse, and rejecting consolation. She met Josephine, a square or two from home, and upon the door-step, Mr. Lacy. Admitting him, she ran up stairs to efface the marks of her recent agitation. Her pallor and swollen eyes remained, however, and did not escape him. He did not begin, as many would have done, in his place, to speak of topics entirely foreign to what was in their thoughts; he wished to apply a curative, not an anodyne.

"Charley tells me you are going to the country, before long;" he said. "I do not regret it, as I should if I were to stay here myself. After the first of April, I shall study at home, until autumn. You are to pay your friend Carry a visit, are you not?"

"Yes."

"She is the 'sister' I have heard so much of?"

"The same—I wish you knew her."

"I think I do. Her cheerful society is what you need. While it is neither possible, nor desirable to forget that we have been bereaved, we should beware how we indulge in a luxury of woe. Our duty to those we have lost, does not oblige us to neglect the friends who are spared to us."

"Very few remain to me," said Ida, tremulously.

"You are wrong. You may never find one who will fill his place; but the rest love you the more, that you are afflicted. Charley is a true brother."

"He is—and of late he is more unreserved, more affectionate than he used to be; his sympathy is very sweet. I must speak of yourself, also, Mr. Lacy, although I have no language to thank you for your kindness. I fear I have been wearisome at times; but you seem to understand why this was no common bereavement to me."

"So far from being wearied, I am grateful for your confidence. No act of mine shall cause you to repent it."

"Charley has given me some lines which he thinks were written recently," said Ida. "They were among some loose sheets in a portfolio of drawings. I wept over them, but they comforted me. I have been wishing that you had them. This is a rough copy, you observe; and probably not read after being penned."

Mr. Lacy's eyes filled, as he read at the top of the page, "11-1/2 P.M., after a visit from M. L."