Ida was moved even to tears, by her guardian's unqualified encomium, so feelingly uttered. The esteem of such a man was, of itself a reward for her conflicts with self and outward temptations. She had so much to be thankful for! she said over and over, that day. She was at home! at Sunnybank! the air was purer—the water clearer—the birds merrier, there than anywhere else; and there was abiding tranquillity in the thought that she might live and die under the roof-tree that sheltered her cradle; an enlargement of heart and kindliness as she beheld her dependents rejoicing in her restoration to them; looking to her for support and happiness. And that mother's grave was there! She sat there a long hour at even-tide. The willow leaflets were just putting out, and the swaying of the flexile boughs was slight and noiseless. There was a hush in the air—not a dead calm—but a solemn pause, as if Nature had folded her busy hands to return devout thanks for mercies past, and gather strength for future labor. Ida was no sickly dreamer now. She knew life, as it is—a day! only a day—divide and sub-divide as we may,—the morning hallowed by some with early prayer—squandered by more in trifling; the noon, waxing to its height over reeking brows and panting chests, and straining arms; the evening, relaxing the strung muscles, and curdling the bounding blood, and bringing to each his meed,—righteous recompense for his deeds, fair or foul; and the night—black-browed angel, saying to the vexed brain, "Thy work is ended!" spreading his hands over the swelling heart-wave, and it is still! bidding the harassed body—"Sleep on now and take your rest." She knew life, and that to the God-fearing toiler in His vineyard, there is no rest until night. He is not denied the inhalation of the odorous breeze, and a pause in the shade to wipe his heated brow; but he must not swerve from his furrow to seek it. Flowers, whose kindred blossom in Paradise, smile up from the unsightly clods, and these he may wear in his bosom, leaving unculled the poppies and almond-laurel which flaunt near by; content in knowing but this, what is his work, and bending, training every power to the strenuous endeavor to do it.
Mr. Dana stayed but three days; his family prolonged their visit into as many weeks; nor would Ida have resigned them then, had not Emma been daily expected; for the school was a fixed fact. Accompanied and guarded by the faithful Will, Ida had explored the woods, gullies and old fields for recruits. Her determined spirit bore her out, or she would have thrown up the project by the end of the first day. She chose what Will called the "toughest cases" for her freshest energies.
"The Digganses" lived in a rickety hut, in the exact centre of a common of broom straw, mowed down to stubble, for ten feet around the door—said area populated at Ida's visit, by five white-headed children, three hounds, and two terrier puppies, a full-grown grunter and a brood of little ones, and half a dozen meagre fowls. The hounds bayed; the terriers squeaked their shrill treble; the pigs squealed, and made for the high straw; the human animals scampered squallingly, into the house; while Ida's horse—to complete the hubbub—set up a frightened neigh, and would have run, but for Will's grip. Without waiting for Mrs. Diggans' "Light! won't you?" she sprang from the saddle. The hostess came to the door with a greasy, steaming kettle in one hand, and the flesh-fork in the other. She deposited them upon the ground, wiped her hands upon her begrimmed apron, and offered her right. Ida blessed the ignorance of Fashion's laws in these regions, which did not compel her to remove her gloves. The cabin did not belie the promise of the exterior. It was dingy and dirty, scented with bacon and cabbage, and an indescribable smell, as of a musty cupboard, converted into a sleeping-room. Yet these people were not disreputable, in the ordinary acceptation of the word. They had never been convicted of theft or drunkenness. Indolence and improvidence kept them down, for they were never "up." They were as well off now as when they married; if the children came faster than the bread, they begged or borrowed of their "lucky" neighbors.
"I'm mighty pleased to see you!" said Mrs. Diggans, dusting a wooden cricket with the convenient apron. "How much you've growed like your mother. Good Fathers! I never see two folks more alike. You've done come home to live, I've heern."
"I hope so, ma'am."
"You didn't like town-folks, I 'spose?"
"Yes, ma'am; I have some good friends there, but I think my place is here."
"Um-hum! well—you ain't married?"
"Oh! no, ma'am."
"But you're goin' to be, I reckon?" slyly.