Ida had scanty faith in the reality of his wonder, but most of that expressed was genuine. "Such a fine young man! well-to-do in the world, and she so unprotected!" Carry had built many castles in the air, upon Ida's presupposed acceptance of her neighbor, and expostulated with her.
"Better a lonely, than a miserable life, dear Carry;" was the reply. "I have my Bible to direct me,—my Heavenly Father to lean upon. While I obey Him, He will not leave me friendless. As to the obloquy of old-maidism, I do not dread it."
At the fall of the leaf, the town Danas returned home, and Ida slipped into her place in the family, as though she had always constituted a part of it. The time winged happily and uneventfully along until Christmas. Dr. Carleton, Arthur and Carry were with them then, and another visitor, Ida's namesake, and the miraculous prodigy of Poplar-grove;—a lovely babe, four months old; with its father's hazel eyes, and the transparent skin, and bright flossy curls of its beautiful mother.
On New Year's eve, the older members of both families collected in the parlor, to greet the commencement of the new cycle. Ida occupied an ottoman, between her guardian and Charley; chatting, with girlish vivacity, to the latter. Mrs. Dana was in the opposite corner, in the shadow of the mantel, conversing with her father; but her voice shook at times, and her eyes wandered constantly to her young friend. Ida did not notice this, nor the sadness that tinged her guardian's fatherly look, as he smoothed her chestnut hair for a long time, musingly. She did not suspect he was thinking of her. He smiled, as she threw up her eyes to his face, and rested her head against the arm of his chair; but it was a fleeting light—the uncertain enjoyment of a pleasure, whose loss one anticipates. Finally he spoke.
"Ida! will you give your attention for a minute?"
"For an hour, if you wish it, sir. I am all ear."
"You must be mouth, too—for there are questions for you to answer. Yesterday, in examining certain papers of Mr. Read's, pertaining to the guardianship, I found a packet of letters, mostly from your mother—some from Mr. Grant, and one of yours—written after your illness at Sunnybank. You say therein, that it was your mother's wish for you to take her place, as mistress of the establishment there, so soon, as in his judgment, you should be possessed of the ability; that there were plans laid off, but unfinished by her, whose completion she bequeathed to you;—and you enclose a schedule, which surprised me by the sound sense and foresight displayed in its provisions and items. You conclude by declaring your prepossessions for a country life, and the binding character of the duty, which you conceived was resting upon you. I referred to your mother's letters. It is not for us to censure the dead, but it is amazing how Mr. Read could have slighted the desire, virtually conveyed in every one of them, viz.: that it should be optional with you, at what time after you had attained the age of eighteen, and remained single, you should return to a home, to which, she was assured conscience and affection would alike attract you. She describes your strength of mind and purpose, when a child, as remarkable; and says that she would not fear to entrust to you, the execution of any directions concerning the business she then superintended. My course is too plainly laid down for me to deliberate or waver. In a year, you will be of age; your judgment is as ripe now, as it will be then; you are competent to control yourself, and your subordinates. It is for you to say whether you still consider it obligatory upon you, to anticipate your legal majority."
There was a blank silence. Mrs. Dana alone, was not surprised, and she had most pending upon the verdict. Ida hid her face upon her guardian's arm.
"I would not trouble you needlessly, dear child;" he said, passing his hand over her dark locks; "else I would tell you how dear you were to us, before you lived with us;—how doubly dear you are now. If personal feeling were the arbiter in this case, I would never have made the statement you have heard to-night; and Jenny has not spoken, because foreseeing that her affection might outrun her discretion, I exacted a promise of non-interference. Your home is here, dear Ida, as long as you choose to make us happy by your presence. I repeat—the decision rests with you."
"I do not know what to say. Determine for me, dear Mr. Dana."