Love like hers is never selfish. When they were separating to dress, she called Laura into her room. Two dresses—a rose-coloured challé, and a white muslin were upon the bed. "No thanks, dear!" she said, as the delighted creature clasped her arms about her neck, in speechless gratitude. "You, who do so much for me and mine, deserve some token of regard. What! tears! Dry them instantly, and try your dresses. Ah! they fit! I thought we were nearly the same size,—so had them cut by my patterns. Emma! step in here! Are we not proud of our pupil?"
"She does not require fine robes to win praise from me," said Emma. "How handsome and becoming! just what one might expect from the donor."
"She is the best, dearest friend I have"—began Laura, smiling through her tears.
"Hush!" said Ida, threateningly. "Flatterers! both of you! be off and 'beautify' as Charley says. And Laura—do you hear? don't have eyes and dress to match! a contrast is better."
The main part of Sunnybank house was capped by a sort of belvidere, accessible by steps from the garret. Why it had been built was one of Ida's childish studies; and the acquisition of other knowledge was no help to the elucidation of this mystery. Emma said the founder of the mansion had an astronomical turn, and used it as an observatory;—Laura, that it was a belfry, from which the alarm-bell was sounded to collect the surrounding settlers, when an incursion was made by the savages; Ida's more matter-of-fact belief was that her ancestor had more fondness than taste for ornamental architecture, and so planned this tuft to the conical crown of his habitation. On the birth-night, this was to be illuminated; the brackets were prepared, and some of the candles in the sockets. Nearer and faster descended the darkness. Aunt Judy fidgeted from the kitchen to the house, and from the house to the kitchen, in mortal fear for the credit of her supper. Miss Betsey prognosticated upsettings and wheel-breakings, and "hoped the horses were sure-footed. That hill, the other side of Tim's Creek was awful of a dark night."
"I say, girls!" exclaimed Ida, "we will light the belvidere! They can see it six miles off. Anything but idle waiting!"
She was to stand in the yard, and direct the disposition of the lights—Laura, Emma and Will, who thought no whim of his "mistis" absurd, ascended to the roof. The breeze was at rest; and the rays shot forth, clear and straight, down the avenue, magnifying the proportions of the fantastic roof. The others came out to admire the effect with her.
"Hist!" said she. "Music!"
But there was not a sound.
"I heard it—I know!" said she, positively. "Come into the porch."