This was one of their twilight talks in the roomy porch.
"I believe," said Ida, laughing; "Miss Betsey fears the Ross pride is extinct in me. It costs her a twinge to see me teach my sable class, and she modestly hinted, this morning, that her chamber, or the dining-room would be a more proper place for their recitations, than mine. I represented to her that they were not there more than an hour in the day, and came in groups of three or four—one set retiring as another entered; and that they felt a pride in being neat and orderly, because they were in 'Mistis' room,'—but the dear old creature was not satisfied, although she held her peace."
"And you are the Ida Ross, whose pride kept the whole school at a distance!" exclaimed Emma. "How you were misunderstood!"
"Understood, my dear! if I appeared disagreeable and selfish. That was my dark age, Emma. How much has transpired since! how much of sorrow—how much of joy!"
"You are not unhappy now!" said Emma, in a tone of surprised inquiry.
"No, my love! happy and busy—and thankful for my Father's love and favors—not the least of which is His gift of a companion."
Carry had asked her a similar question during her first summer at Poplar grove—with what different emotions she had replied!
"But," she resumed, "the unbending will is not dead yet. Dr. Hall and lady called on me to-day, and I unfolded our prospectus of a Sabbath-school. The doctor pursed up his mouth in his quizzical way. 'The Church is four miles from you.'
"'But only three from you,' said I.