"I will meet you there; I must go to my hotel awhile first."
There could be no reason for this, yet Ida thought Miss Arnold's brow clouded.
"Your hair was prettily arranged last night, Ida," said Alice. "Will you give me a few hints as to my coiffure?"
"With pleasure. I was about to ask if I could assist you in any way?"
So, instead of going off to her "sanctum," she busied herself in the dressing-room. Alice laughed and talked incessantly; Miss Arnold was grave and mute, except when her maid paused for directions. She objected, in the mildest of tones, that there was not light enough upon her table, and thanked "dear, obliging Alice," who sent a candle from hers, without fearing she could not spare it.
"I never looked so well in all my life!" said Alice, clasping her hands in pretended rapture. "I am all impatience to try the effect of my beauty. You have won me one admirer, Ida—myself."
"Add me to the number," said Miss Arnold, and gliding up, she kissed the rosy cheek.
"O Lelia! my darling!" screamed Alice. "My darling! you are an angel! Ida! is she not lovely?"
"Very!" said Ida, and she felt it. Alice said an affectionate—the rest a polite farewell;—they drove off;—and she went very quietly to her chamber—quietly—though her hand was pressed hard upon her heart; and her throat ached, as if iron fingers were tightened around it;—and while they were dancing, she was kneeling before that precious Bible, forgetting sorrow and self in its sublime teachings;—hours before their return, she slept, peacefully, happily—such sleep as even in this life "He giveth His beloved."