Mr. Grant (the overseer) and his wife had not been remiss in their duty to the sick girl. She had the best medical attendance the county afforded; and Mr. Read was written to at the commencement of the attack; the letter was unanswered—probably not received. Rachel was "sure Miss Jenny or Miss Carry would come in a minute, if they knew she was sick;" but was ignorant of the address of either. Their nursing might have been more skilful, but it could not have exceeded hers in tenderness. She took turns with Mrs. Grant in watching, but she never left the room except for her meals. She was amply repaid for her labor of love by the improvement which henceforward was apparent in her patient. Her raptures awoke no responsive harmony in Ida's bosom.
Her physician was a son of Mr. Hall, the old minister, who had gone to his rest.
"You must exert yourself, Miss Ida," said he. "Have you walked yet?"
"No, sir."
"Cannot you do it?"
"I don't know, indeed, sir."
"But, my dear child, nature cannot do everything; we must aid her. It is as binding upon us to save our own lives, as those of others."
"When they are worth saving."
"You want more powerful tonics than any I have;" said the doctor, eyeing her curiously. "I must think your case over. I command you to walk across the room twice to-day, three times to-morrow, and so on. See that she minds me, Rachel!"
Rachel gave her no peace, until she consented to sit up awhile in the easy-chair, by the window. Sunnybank was sadly changed. The buildings and enclosures were in good repair, and the fields cultivated; but the walks and shrubbery were neglected; and the garden, into which Ida was looking, overgrown with high weeds. Here and there a rose-tree struggled for a foothold, a scanty growth of yellow leaves clinging to the mossy stems; the sweetbrier still hung over the window, its long, bare arms rattling in the cold wind like fleshless bones; the tangled grass in the yard had run to seed, and piles of dead leaves were heaped against the palings. She could not see the grave-yard; she knew, though, that the willows were leafless, and how the sprays were waving in their melancholy dance, and whispering their old song—"Alone!" If alone then, how now? sick—dying, perhaps! where were those who had proudly borne the name of friend? where the sister, in whose bosom she had lain for months, and eased her sorrows and heightened her joys? the brother, she had averred, was "all kindness and truth?" and oh! where he, who had filled her heart to the brim with the rich, red wine of life, to change, in a moment, to fiery, deadly poison! She felt no resentment against him; she was too utterly broken-hearted, she thought, even if she had cause; and she had not. Her wilful self-deception had been her snare; instead of studying his heart, she had judged it by her own. Were his candor—his undisguised interest in her welfare, tokens of love, that ever seeks concealment? No! he had tried to lead her, a wayward child, to the paths of happiness; and she had seen nought but the hand which pointed the way. There was prophetic meaning in Lynn's eye, when he spoke of "the finest growth of heart and soul, which you flattered yourself were climbing heavenward, twining with strengthening tendrils around the altar of that one love!" She had been impious enough to imagine that she was imbibing a fondness for holy things; her heart had burned within her, as he talked of the loved theme; she had read the Scriptures, and prayed, in words, for light and guidance. And by the fierce rebellion which fired her breast—rebellion against—hatred of the Being, this lip service had blasphemed, she knew that she had never bowed in soul to Him; and her heart—broken, though she said it was,—trusting still—adoring still the mortal, through the great love she bore him—yet reared itself in angry defiance, saying to the Chastener,—"I will not submit!" What had she done, to be left desolate— comfortless in the spring-time of life! "He is, they tell me, merciful and all-powerful;—let Him give me back my love, and I will believe in Him." And as day by day passed, and there were no tidings of Carry or the Danas, she felt a morose complacency in the confirmation of her hard thoughts of them, and in repeating, "I am not humbled yet!"