CHAPTER V.

'Ruined shrines, and towers that seemThe relics of some splendid dream,'—

such a Fairy Land as ignorance and imagination create."

"The Utopia of one who studies Lalla Rookh more than 'Eastern Statistics,' or 'Incidents of Travel,'" said Mr. Dermott, smiling. "Yet Moore's descriptions are not so much overwrought as some suppose. His words came continually to my tongue. He has imbibed the true spirit of Oriental poetry; the melancholy, which, like the ghost of a dead age, broods over that oldest of lands; the passion flushing under their tropical sun; their wealth of imagery. Lalla Rookh reads like a translation from the original Persian. The wonder is that he has never been self-tempted to visit the 'Vale of Cashmere' in person."

"Campbell, too, having immortalized Wyoming, will not cross the ocean to behold it," said Ida.

There was a consultation between the confederates, and Pemberton crossed to Ida's chair, with a smirk that belied the fire in his eye.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dermott,—Miss Ida, I am commissioned to inquire of you the authorship and meaning of this quotation—

'Deeply, darkly,desperatelyblue!'"

It is impossible to convey a just impression of the offensive tone and emphasis with which this impertinence was uttered. The quick-witted Irishman saw through the design in an instant. "It is from a Scotch author," said he, before Ida could reply, "and the rhyme runs after this fashion—

'Feckless, fairlie, farcically fou!'"

and not deigning a second glance at the questioner, he continued his account of a visit he had paid to Moore. The objectof this merciless retort stood for a second, in doubt as to its meaning, and then walked off, still in incertitude. Ida's laugh, while it might have been in response to Mr. Dermott's story assured Josephine that her end was unaccomplished, before her messenger had delivered his lame return.

"She understood me, and it cut pretty deeply, but that puppy of a paddy answered for her. He repeated the next line, too, 'from a Scotch author,' he said, but I believe he made it up."

"What was it?" asked Josephine.

"'Fairly, farcically fou,' or something like that. If I were sure that last word meant fool, I would knock him down. Do you understand Scotch?"

"No," replied Josephine, vexed, but afraid to excite him further. "He is beneath the notice of a gentleman; we can let him alone."

But Ida's share in this was not to be overlooked. Josephine appeared as usual at breakfast: talkative to her father, and taciturn to her female companion. At length she inquired, meaningly, "by the way, Ida, when does your travelled Hibernian 'lave this counthry?'"

"If you speak of Mr. Dermott, I do not know."

"Is it not remarkable," said Josephine to her parent, "that polish and purify as you may, you cannot cure an Irishman of vulgarity? Irish he is, and Irish he will remain to the end of the chapter."

"Dermott behaves very decently, does he not? His letters of recommendation—introduction, I would say, describe him as a pattern gentleman."

Josephine lifted her brows. "It is a misfortune to be fastidious; my education has rendered me so. I cannot tolerate slang or abuse, especially when directed at a superior in politeness, if not in assurance."

"What now?" demanded Mr. Read, impatiently; and Ida, unable to hear more in silence, started up from the table.

"Wait, if you please," said Josephine, with that metallic glitter of her grey eyes. "I wish you to repeat your friend's reply to Mr. Pemberton, when he was the bearer of a civil message fromme."

"I heard no message of that description," retorted Ida, unmoved.

"He did not repeat a line of poetry, and ask the author's name, I presume?"

"He did."

"And you furnished the required information?"

"I did not."

"Mr. Dermott did, then. What was his answer?"

"I do not choose to tell.Iam not in the habit of playing spy and informer."

"Then I shall repeat it.Iam not in the habit of winking at impudence or transgressions of the most common laws of society. What do you say, sir, of a man who, in the presence of ladies, calls another a 'farcical fool?'"

"That he is a foreign jackanape. He never darkens my door again. You heard this?" to Ida.

"I did not, sir, but Mr. Pemberton displays such penetration in discovering, and taste in fitting on caps that could suit no one else so well, I am not inclined to contest his title to this latest style."

"I do not wonder at your defence of your erudite suitor," said Josephine, laying a disagreeable stress upon the adjective. "If he were to single me out in every company, as the one being capable of appreciating him, I, too, should be blinded by the distinction attendant upon my notoriety. But as His Highness never gives token, by word or deed, of his consciousness of the existence of so unpretending a personage, I may be pardoned my impartial observation and judgment. I do not expect you to forbid his visits, sir, but I wish it understood thatIam not at home when he calls."

"And that you reject his attentions?" asked Ida, dryly.

Josephine did not like her smile, yet saw no danger in replying—"assuredly!"

"It is a pity," was the rejoinder, "that your resolution was not postponed until Tuesday."

"And why?" said Mr. Read.

"Mr. Dermott informed me last night that he had secured three tickets for the concert of Monday evening, and requested permission to call for Josephine and myself. I told him that she hadexpressed anxiety to attend, and that I was disengaged. She was not in the parlor when he left, and he entrusted the invitation to me. He will be here this forenoon for her answer. As things now stand, his visit will be extremely mal-apropos. I shall decline for myself; she can do the same."

Josephine prudently lowered her eye-lids, but her lips were white with rage. She had especial reasons for desiring to go to this concert. Every body was running mad after the principal performer:—absence from necessity would be a pitiable infliction;—to stay away from choice, irrefragable proof of want of taste. To be escorted thither by Mr. Dermott, would give her an éclat the devotion of a score of Pembertons could not produce. In seeking to mortify another, she had pulled down this heavy chagrin upon her own head,—common fate of those who would make the hearts and backs of their fellows the rounds of their ladder to revenge or to fame.

Even Mr. Read was momentarily disconcerted. "I will procure you a ticket," he said, consolingly.

That tongue was used to falsehood, yet it did not move as glibly as was its wont, as she replied, "I do not care to go, sir."

"That is fortunate," said Ida, "as every seat was taken yesterday. You do not object to my withdrawingnow?"

The shot had gone home; her enmity was gratified; she had not been anxious to attend from the first, and therefore was not disappointed; she did not suffer from pained sensibility; the frequency of these encounters had inured her to ambushed attack; she was fast becoming a match for them in stoicism, and surpassed them in satire; in this skirmish she had borne flying colours from the field; but had the contrary of all these things been true, she could not have been more wretched. She hated, as spirits like hers only can hate, her cold-hearted persecutors, and exulted in their defeat; yet close upon triumph came a twinge of remorse and a sense of debasement.

"I am sinking to their level! I could compete with them upon no other ground. They are despicable in their worldliness and malice; shall I grovel and hiss with them? It seems inevitable—debarred as I am from all associations which can elevate and clear my mind. Oh! the low envy in that girl's face as she named my 'suitor!' Destitute of mental wants herself, shethinks of nothing but courtship and a settlement! But this matter must be arranged."

She opened her writing-desk. Her chamber was her retreat and sanctum, and she had lavished much taste and time in fitting it up. All its appurtenances spoke of genius and refinement. With a poetic love for warm colors and striking contrasts, crimson and black relieved, each the other, in her carpet and curtains. The bedstead, seats and tables, fashioned into elegant and uncommon forms by her orders, were draped and cushioned with the same Tyrian hue. Books and portfolios were heaped and strewed upon the shelves and stands; and in one corner, upon a wrought bronze tripod, was an exquisite statuette—a girl kneeling beside an empty cage, the lifeless songster stark and cold in her hand. Several of Ida's schoolmates were with her when she purchased it from an itinerant Italian. They saw in the expression of hopeless sadness, only regret for her bird. Ida noted that her gaze was not upon its ruffled plumes, but to its silent home; and that one hand lay upon her heart. Looking more narrowly she discerned upon the pedestal the simple exclamation, "Et mon coeur!"

Henceforward it had become her Lares. She had scattered flowers over it, kissed it weepingly, and with lips rigid in stern despair, laid her hot brow to the white forehead of the voiceless mourner. She must have something to love, and the insensate image was dear, because it told of a grief such as hers. Now, after she dipped her pen in the standish, she paused to contemplate it,—the red light bathing it in a life-like glow,—and the blood receded from her face, as she uttered aloud its touching complaint, "Etmoncoeur!"

Writing a note to Mr. Dermott, in which; without stating her reasons, she declined his offer, she dispatched it by one of her own servants, lately promoted to the office of Abigail, and attired herself for a walk. It was Saturday, and the weather faultless. A sigh of relief escaped her when she was in the outer air—she was free for a while. The streets were densely peopled—dashing ladies, and marble-playing urchins, glorying in the holiday; bustling, pushing men, and lazy nurses lugging fat babies; and through the incongruous crowd the pale thinker threaded her way, jostling and jostled, wrapped in herself, as they thoughtbut of their individual personality, with this difference—they seemed happy in their selfishness; she was miserable in her isolation. She did not see that Pemberton passed her with a stiff bow, which, in punishment for her non-recognition, he resolved should be exchanged for a decided "cut" at their next meeting; did not catch Mr. Purcell's eye, as forgetting her rebuff in his pleasure at espying one, who could rightly value the prize he had discovered in an antiquated volume, musty with age, he beckoned to her from the door of the bookstore; did not hear Emma Glenn's modest "Good morning, Miss Ida," although she liked the child, and would have loved her if she had dared. She turned from the busy thoroughfare into an unfrequented street, keeping the same rapid pace; the mind was working, the body must be moving too—on, still on, with unflagging speed—'till she found herself upon the summit of the hill overlooking the lower part of the city, and near the old church-yard. She stopped, and looked in. A flight of steps led up to the burying-ground, several feet above the level of the walk. What tempted her to ascend? She had been there before, and was not interested—yet the irresolution ended in her entrance. It was very still in that Acropolis of the dead: the long grass, yellow in the October sun, waved without rustling; the sere leaves drifted silently to the ground; from the mass of buildings below her arose only a measured beat rather than hum—as regular, and not louder, than the "muffled drum" within her bosom. The warring elements of discord sank into a troubled rest, but their conflict was easier to be borne than the reaction that succeeded.

"Free among the dead;" forgotten as they, she sat upon a broken tombstone, in the shadow of the venerable church, with sorrowful eyes which looked beyond the city, the river, and the undulating low-grounds skirting its banks.

She had said to herself an hundred times, "I cannot be happy; it is folly to hope." But this morning she felt she had never until now relinquished hope; that despair, for the first time, stalked through the deserted halls of her heart, and the dreaded echo "alone" answered his footsteps.

It is easy to give up the world, with its million sources of delight, to share the adverse fortunes of one dearer than all itspainted show; it is sweet to bid adieu to its frivolities, for the hope of another and a "better," but

"When the draught so fair to seeTurns to hot poison on the lip;"

when the duped soul cries out against the fair pretence that promised so much and gave so little, when it will none of it, and puts it by with loathing disgust;—yet resorts to nothing more real and pure;—what art can balm a woe like this?

A click of the gate-latch, and voices warned her that her solitude was about to be invaded. "I will wait here half an hour," said familiar tones. "Thank you," was the reply; "you need not stay longer; if she is at home I shall spend the day." "Very well; good bye," and Carry Carleton ran up the steps. Retreat was impossible, for their eyes met at once, and to the new visitor the meeting appeared to give satisfaction.

"I am, indeed, fortunate," said she, saluting Ida, and taking a place beside her, "I expected to pass a solitary half-hour. One of the girls came with me to the gate. She has gone to see her aunt, and may not return to-day. This is a favorite spot of mine. I am laughed at for the choice, yet it seems I am not as singular as they would have me believe. Do you come here often?"

"This is only my second visit."

"Indeed! But it is a long walk from your house. I live nearer, although on the other hill."

"I understood you were from the country," said Ida.

"So I am—but my sister resides here, and hers is another home to me. Ilovethe country, yet I like Richmond. It is a beautiful city," she continued, her glance roving over the landscape.

"Outwardly—yes."

"You do not think the inhabitants adapted to their abode, then?"

"I do not know that they are worse than the rest of mankind. It is a matter of astonishment to me, that this globe should have been set apart as the theatre for so depraved a race."

"I don't know," said Carry, cheerily. "I find it a nice world—the best I am acquainted with; and the people harmless, goodcreatures—some dearer to me than others; but I entertain a fraternal affection for all."

"I have read of philanthropists," said Ida; "but you are the sole specimen I have seen. And this universal love—is it content to exist without a reciprocation?"

"The heart would be soon emptied were this so," returned the other, her bright face becoming serious. "There are many who love me; if any dislike, I am in blissful ignorance of the sentiment and its cause."

"But if your friends were removed, and replaced by enemies?"

"I would teach them friendship. My affection for the dead would make me more desirous to benefit the living."

"And if they would not be conciliated—if upon the broad earth you had not an answering spirit?"

"I should die!"

"How then do I live?" nearly burst from Ida's heart, but she smothered it, and replied, "It is easier to speak of death than to brave it."

"Death! did I say death?" exclaimed Carry. "I saw life as it would be were I bereft of father, sister, friends—and I said truly that it would not be worth the keeping—but death! I would not rush onthat!I have such a horror of the winding-sheet and the worm!" She shivered.

"Yet you like to be here?"

"Yes. This is a sunny, cheerful place, with no fresh graves to remind one that the work of destruction is still going on. I love life. Others may expose its deceits, and weep above its withered blooms; I see blue sky where they fancy clouds. It is the day—the time for action and enjoyment; who would hasten the coming of the night—impenetrable—dawnless!"

"'To die—and go—we know not where!'"

quoted Ida. "That line conveys all that I fear in death. There have been seasons when the uncertainty shrouding the abyss beyond alone prevented my courting its embrace. Were it eternal forgetfulness, how grateful would be its repose. Looking around me here, I think of calm sleepers under these stones, hands folded meekly upon bosoms that will never heave again; of aching heads and wearied spirits at rest forever."

"You are too young to covet this dreamless slumber," said Carry "With your talents and facilities you have a work to do in this world."

"What can I do? and for whom?"

"Why—for every body."

"Too wide a scope—define. For example, what are my school-duties, setting aside my studies?"

"We can help each other," was the modest rejoinder. "We can impart pleasure, and avoid giving pain. Not a day passes in which we cannot add a drop of sweet to the appointed draught of some one of our fellow-creatures."

"Apropos to honey—it suggests its opposite, gall, and our ei-devant professor. I have not thanked you for your generous interference in my behalf, on the day of our fracas," said Ida, with an ease and cordiality that surprised herself.

"You magnify the favor. I spoke the truth. To withhold it would have been dishonesty."

"Dishonesty!"

"Your character for veracity was assailed. I had the proof which would establish it. I should have felt like a receiver of stolen goods had I concealed it."

"Moreover, to your philanthropy, I was not an individual, but the impersonation of the sisterhood;" said Ida, jestingly.

"Perhaps so," returned Carry, in a like strain. "You remember the 'Young Ladies' Female meeting.'"

"That was a piece of Ellen Morris' grandiloquence. Do you know, I envy that girl her faculty of creating mirth wherever she goes!"

"I had rather be Emma Glenn," said Carry. "One is witty, the other affectionate, and they will receive respectively admiration and love."

"I do not quite agree with you. Ellen's high spirits will carry her through many a sharp battle, from which Emma's sensitive nature would never recover. To combat with the world one should have no heart; and I heard a clergyman once say that a woman had no use for sense."

Carry laughed. "Between you, you would represent us as a superfluous creation. Yet woman has her sphere, no less than man; and if he conquers in his by might of purpose and brutestrength, she guides, instead of rules in hers, by love and submission. As for the world, that semi-fabulous ogre, supposed to live somewhere, all out of doors, whose cold charities are proverbial; who eats up widow's houses, and grinds the poor; we have no dealings with it. It is, to my notion, an innocent bugbear, kept by the men, to prevent us from meddling in their business matters; and to melt flinty-hearted wives into pity for one, who has been fighting this monster all day, and has now to drink smoked tea, and eat burnt toast for supper."

"Are you ever sad?" questioned Ida.

"Not often, why do you ask?"

"You appear so light-hearted. I was at a loss to determine whether it was natural or feigned."

"My spirits are good, chiefly from habit, I believe. My father is remarkably cheerful. It is a maxim of his, that we are unjust, when we cause others to do penance for our humors; they have trouble enough of their own to bear. Controlling the manifestations of temper and discontent, is generally followed by the suppression of the feelings themselves. It has been so with me."

"See that burlesque of life!" said Ida, pointing. "Children turning somersets upon a tomb-stone!"

The tomb was built with four brick walls, supporting a horizontal tablet; and upon this flat surface, the irreverent youngsters were gambolling. One, the most agile, and the leader of the troop, was, as she spoke, in the act of performing a vehemently encored feat, viz.: throwing two somersets upon the marble, anotherin transitufor the ground, and a fourth, after landing upon the turf. Two were accomplished in safety, the third was a flying leap, and he did not move afterwards. The children screamed, and the girls ran to the spot. In falling, he had struck his head against a stone, and was senseless, the blood gushing from a wound in, or near the temple. Carry rested his head upon her arm, and with nervous haste, unbuttoned his collar. "Where are his parents?" inquired Ida. But they only cried the louder. "I fear he is killed!" said Carry. Ida shook her purse at the terrified group. "Who will bring me a doctor,—who, his mother?" Her collected manner tended to quiet them, as much as the clink of coin. Half-a-dozenscampered in as many directions, and she ordered the rest off, without ceremony. There was no rebellion. Each had a misgiving that he was to blame for the casualty, and they were glad to skulk away.

The handkerchief which Carry held to the gash, was saturated, and Ida supplied hers. He showed no sign of life, except that Ida imagined that she detected a feeble fluttering of the heart. Carry wept as though her heart would break. "Poor little fellow!" she exclaimed repeatedly. Ida did not shed a tear, but her compressed lips and contracted brow said this did not proceed from insensibility. "I cannot bear this suspense," she said. "I will look for a doctor myself, if you are not afraid to stay here alone."

"No, go!"

She met the medical man at the gate. It was Mr. Read's family physician, who chanced to be in the neighborhood. "Oh, Dr. Ballard!" exclaimed Ida. "I am rejoiced to see you!"

"And I am always happy to meet Miss Ross—but what is this about a boy killed? None of your friends, I hope."

Ida explained, as she led him to the scene of the disaster. It seemed ill-timed to the agitated girls, to see him touch his hat, with grave courtesy, to Carry, as he stooped to make an examination. "He is not dead," he said, feeling the pulse and heart; "but it came near being an awkward hurt. Miss Ross, I will trouble you to call one of those boys, and send him for my servant, who is in the street with my carriage. If I only had some soft linen!" looking around. Ida took an embroidered scarf from her neck. He tore it into strips, rolled them into a ball, and bound it tightly upon the cut. "Where does he live?" he asked.

The information was furnished by the boy's mother, who hurried up at this instant. She, with her reviving son, were put into the carriage, and the doctor stepped in after them.

The girls had no inclination to linger in the church-yard. The conversation, during their walk, ran upon the accident; but as they parted at the corner of the streets diverging to their separate abodes, Carry expressed a strong desire for the continuation of the acquaintance. "We have had an odd talk this morning;" said she smiling; "I would not have you regard it as a fair sample of my conversational powers."

Ida walked homeward with a lightened spirit. "Odd" as was their talk, and alarming as was the incident which interrupted it, she was better for both. There was a charm in Carry's frankness, which beguiled her confidence, and her cheerful philosophy was a pleasant, if not a prudent rule, for making one's way in life. She dwelt upon her declaration, that each day brought its opportunities for benevolent deeds; and her conscience responded joyfully to the appeal, "Have I contributed my drop of sweet to-day?" by pointing to her exertions for the relief of the unknown sufferer. Carry had praised her presence of mind, and the doctor complimented her warmly. "If I have not given pleasure, I have mitigated pain."

The struck chord ceased to vibrate as she reached the house where she had suffered and learned so much. When she came down to dinner, she was impassive and distant. Mr. Read vouchsafed to inquire if she had seen Mr. Dermott. She replied in the negative.

"I thought there was an arrangement to that effect;" said he, sneeringly.

"I addressed a note to him which made his call unnecessary."

"I do not presume to meddle with your correspondence, Miss Ross;" with "immense" stiffness; "but I trust neither my name, or that of my daughter was contained in that communication."

"I am responsible for my actions, sir; it is certain I never thought of referring them to your influence. I suppose Mr. Dermott is satisfied,—Iam."

Mr. Purcell, himself an able connoisseur and liberal patron of the fine arts, never suffered a suitable occasion to pass, without endeavoring to implant, and cultivate like tastes in his pupils. No "Exhibition" or Collection was recommended unadvisedly. He justly considered a relish for a vicious or false style, worse than none. So well was this known, that the girls were equallyeager to examine what he esteemed worthy of their inspection, and to avoid that which he condemned. An artist visited the city, and advertised a set of "choice paintings, on exhibition for a few days." They were much talked of, and the scholars impatiently listened for the verdict of their principal. There were many smiling faces, when he announced, that he accepted, with pleasure, the polite invitation of the artist to himself and the members of his school. "The pictures were the work of a master hand;—he recommended them to their careful study." That afternoon, the studio was full. Some went from curiosity; some to be in the fashion; comparatively a small number through genuine love for the art. Among the latter class was Ida Ross. Bestowing little notice upon her acquaintances present, she passed around the room, intent upon the object which had drawn her thither. She was not disturbed; her reserve repelled, and her intellectual superiority awed; she knew—and they knew that though with, she was not of them; as an institution, they were proud of her; as individuals, with a very few exceptions, they disliked and envied her.

The proprietor, or a gentleman, supposed to be he, was at a desk, writing. He must have possessed the power of abstraction in an extraordinary degree; for the chattering about him resembled the confabulations of a flock of magpies, more than the conversation of decorous young ladies. Groups came and departed; and Ida did not mark the changes, until, diverted from the contemplation of a splendid landscape by the sound of her own name,—she perceived a group near by, composed of four or five girls and as many young men, none of them her well-wishers or admirers;—their attention divided between herself, and a sketch of St. John's church. Josephine was the magnet of the circle, and behind her, was the smirking Pemberton. A single glance took in all this, and features and expression were immobile as before. It was Josephine's voice she had heard;—its tones higher than usual. She neither desired, nor affected concealment.

"As I was saying, the church-yard has been converted into a gymnasium. The cry is no longer, 'Liberty or Death!'—but 'Leap Frog or die!'"

A general cachinnation applauded this felicitous hit.

"On Saturday last"—continued the narrator—"the unrivalled troupe were in the midst of one of their most elaborate performances, encouraged by the presence—I am not sure, but assisted by a select company of spectators. I need only specify Miss Ross and friend, name unknown—to assure you of the high respectability of the assemblage. Smiled upon by beauty, and animated to superhuman exertions by soft glances from one, perchance too dear to his youthful heart,—the chief of the band threw his whole soul into his lofty undertaking, and alas! his body, also! He arose, like the Phoenix, from the ashes below, but to seek the earth again, having fallen from the frightful height of three feet. He lay upon the sod without sense or motion. The spectators pressed around,—but, breaking through the throng, came the fair nymphs aforesaid. One pillowed his head upon her arm, and drenched his dusty brow with tears; her comrade wrung her hands, and shrieked for 'help! lest he die!' The crowd, at a respectful distance, looked on; venturing a whisper, now and then, to the purport that 'it was as good as a play, and cost nothing.' Warm brine and sounding air are poor medicines for a cracked skull; and the sufferer remaining insensible, a frantic damsel was seen, vaulting over tomb-stones, bonnetless and shawlless, on the most direct route to the gate. A gallant man of healing was passing, and him she conducted to the prostrate hero. Handkerchiefs and scarfs were stripped from necks and arms to staunch the trickling gore; and supported by his affectionate nurses, the interesting youth gained his carriage. Miss Ross returned home with swollen eyes and downcast air. The afternoon, evening, and most of the next day were spent in retirement. This was a grief sympathy could not assuage."

"Did she tell you of it?" asked one.

"No. Madam Rumor is my informant, and her story is vouched for by a gentleman, an eye witness of the catastrophe."

In this lamentable caricature, there was so little truth, and so much less wit, that it should have been beneath the contempt of her, at whom it was aimed; but the ridicule waspublic. Her bonnet hid her face, but the angry blood surged over her neck in crimson streams. There was vengeful fury enough in the grasp, which drove the nails through the paper she held, into the palm, to have swept the tittering clique from the earth at astroke. Whatever purpose of retaliation sprang into life, it was nipped in the bud. The desk of the supposed artist was in a niche; and the projecting wall concealed it from the view of the party. He was almost in front of her; and her burning eyes were arrested as they encountered his. There was no scorn, or none for her, in that regard; but warning, interest and inquiry were blended with such earnestness, that, like the charmed bird, he could not move or look away. Even when he cast his eyes upon his work again, she did not, at once, withdraw hers. He might have been thirty; was pale, and not handsome, yet anything but ordinary in his appearance. If his countenance had betrayed emotion the previous moment, it vanished as his pen began to move. He was the automaton scribe, and the subdued Ida, drawing her shawl around her, quitted the place, without exchanging a syllable with any one.

The spell of the silent rebuke was speedily dissolved, yet she was grateful that it had restrained her hasty retort. The heated in a quarrel, are always the defeated. Morbid sensibility is the engenderer of suspicion,—and vice versa; the two act and react, until a smile, a look, is the foundation of weeks—it may be, of years of wretchedness. To such a mind, ridicule is a venomed dart, piercing and poisoning, and pride but inflames the wound. Dr. Ballard had showed the courtesy of a gentleman, and the kindness of a friend in his intercourse with Ida. Unconsciously, she had come to like, almost to trust him—and this was at an end. He, and he, only, could have provided the outline of the narrative she had heard. She set her teeth hard, as she recalled her agitated greeting at the gate; and his composure; her subsequent offers of assistance—"officious"—she called them now,—and his calm acceptance. But it was base and unmanly, to make capital for sport of the weakness of a woman—a child, compared with himself! "They are all alike—I must believe it! with hearts rotten to the core! Heaven have mercy on me, until I am as callous as they!" And when he called, at some personal inconvenience, to impart the intelligence of her "protegé's" recovery, she met him with a haughtiness that surprised and angered him; and his futile attempt to throw down the barrier, resulted in his cutting short the interview. He had told Mr. Read of Ida's adventure; but not in the spirit in whichits events were coarsely retailed. He lauded her kindness and self-possession, in terms too extravagant to suit the zero humanity of her guardian's narrow soul;—as he wound up the story to his daughter—he "was not a man to get up a fit of heroics, and had no idea that Ballard had so much palaver about him."

If his vile doctrine were indeed true, if all men were alike, and like him, who of us would not unite in the orphan's prayer—would not cry, with her, in despairing bitterness, "Heaven have mercy upon us, until we are as callous as they!"

She had no mercy upon herself. There was an unholy joy in ruthlessly trampling upon the few flowers that grew in her path: the ebullition of a desperate despair, as when one is tortured by a raging tooth, he probes, and grinds and shakes the offending member, self-inflicting yet more exquisite pain, but bearing it better, under the insane impression that he is wreaking revenge upon its cause; saying, with the poor Dutchman, "ache on! ache on! I can stand it as long as you can!" And "ache on! ache on!" said Ida to her heart, "the nerve will be dead by and by!"

We consign to the lower pit of darkness the bloody demons, cloaked in priestly stole, and "speaking great, swelling words of wisdom" and peace, who tore limb from limb upon the rack, in "zeal for the Faith!" but for him who pours out his atheistical misanthropy,—deadening, petrifying the soul, and blinding the eyes, until in this, our lovely earth, they see but a mighty charnel-house, full of nameless abominations; who traduces God, in despising His noblest work, and says: "Behold the Truth!" the murderer of theheart,—what shall be his portion!

Carry Carleton's liking for the company of "that proud, disagreeable girl," and her defence of her when attacked, was a nine days' wonder. True, "she loved everybody," but here she manifested partiality, far more than accorded with her schoolmates' notions of justice and reason. Carry was unwavering. "I like her," said she, one recess, when her corps of affectionate teazers hung on and about her. "It wounds me to hear you speak disparagingly of her. You must admit that she has redeeming traits. She is one of our best scholars, and if inaccessible, is upright and honorable, and will not stoop to do an ignoble action."

"Yes," said Emma Glenn, happy to add her mite of praise, "Don't you remember she found Julia Mason's composition behind a desk in the cloak room, and brought it in examination day, although she knew that she was her most dangerous competitor for the prize? I'm afraid I should have been tempted to keep it, or leave it where it was."

"I should not be afraid to trust you, dear," said Carry. "You are too ready to commend such conduct in others, to act a contrary part yourself. As for Ida—have any of you reflected how much of what you call her pride you are accountable for?"

"We! how!" was the unanimous exclamation.

"I know my misdeeds are legion, and my good works, like Parson Wilkins' text, 'way off and hard to find,' but 'evil,' indeed, as well as 'few, have been the years of my pilgrimage,' if I had anything to do with the 'formation of Ida Ross' character!" said Ellen Morris, clasping her hands deprecatingly.

"Ellen! Ellen!" remonstrated Carry, "think what effect a remark like that would produce! Would it increase her confidence in you or us? Would she not avoid us more then ever? She is an orphan, and should be dealt with more charitably, than if her feelings had expanded in a home like yours."

"You do not believe she could love anybody!" said one of the group.

"Certainly I do, and I mean she shall love me. You would make the same resolution, if you knew her as I do."

"An idea strikes me, Carry," said the incorrigible Ellen.—"She and we have affinity for each other—water and oil—you are the alkali, which is to reconcile us; we shall be a soap manufactory, to cleanse and regenerate the world."

"A little vinegar facilitates the process, does it not?" asked Carry, good-humoredly.

"You have come to a poor market for it, my good Alkali; upon second thoughts, you must leave me out of the combination altogether—salt, Attic, particularly, being detrimental to the integrity of the article in question."

"Soap boiling and Attica!" said Anna Talbot, who was reading a little apart, "your conversation takes an extended range to-day, young ladies."

"Both are warm places," returned Ellen. "Our imaginationsneeded thawing after perching so long upon the North Pole,id est, Ida Ross."

"You have offended Carry," said Emma, apprehensively, as the former walked towards the other room.

"Not offended, but grieved," she replied, with sweet gravity. "I should not love Ellen as I do, if I did not believe her heart to be oftener in the right place than her tongue."

She passed into the recitation room, and there, her head bent upon a desk, was Ida! Carry was transfixed with dismay. The door was a-jar—she had heard it all! But the relaxed limbs—the unmoving figure—was she then asleep? A minute's stay confirmed this opinion; and greatly relieved, she tripped lightly out by another door. Ida did not sleep. She had left the larger room at the close of morning recitations, seeking in the comparative quiet of this, some ease from a severe headache. She did not think of concealment. After the gossip of the thoughtless circle turned upon herself, she still supposed that her vicinity was known; that their pretended unconsciousness was a covering for a renewal of mortifications. To move would have been matter for triumph, she was not disposed to supply. So unjust does suspicion make us!

Carry's disinterested vindication electrified her. To risk the forfeiture of the favor of the many, for one who had never conferred an obligation—whose good will could profit her nothing! in her experience, the act lacked a parallel. "Can it be," she thought, with stirring pulses, "can it be that I may yet find a friend?" then, as Carry's "I am resolved she shall love me," reached her, she bowed in thankfulness. "I will trust! will stake my last hope of ever meeting a kindred spirit upon this throw—will let her love me if she will, so help me God!" It was no light vow.

Carry's intrusion was unobserved; she was only sensible of the incalescence of her frozen heart. The afternoon was cloudy, and her maid was surprised to see her mistress preparing for her promenade.

"Indeed, Miss Ida, you'll get caught in the shower; 'twont be no little sprinkle, neither. When its starts to rain this time o' year, it never holds up."

"Oh, well!" returned Ida, familiarly, "if we have anotherdeluge, I may as well be out of doors as in. But give me my cloak, Rachel, I must have a short run before it sets in."

Josephine crossed the hall as she was going out. She stared, but made no remark upon her unseasonable excursion. It was less wonderful than the smile and nod she received. "It is pleasant," said Ida to herself, "yet they talked of rain!" But the storm was not to be delayed by inward sunshine. The smoky fog grew denser; through the ominous calm which pervaded the city, the roaring of the distant "Falls" was distinctly audible; cows stood, solemnly herded together, the vapor from their nostrils scarcely thicker than the surrounding atmosphere; and an occasional rain-drop trickling down their roughened hides. Then the pavement was spotted with the precursors of the prognosticated deluge, and a dash of spray into Ida's face restored her to the perception of her actual position: a mile from home, night and a tempest approaching. Ere a dozen steps were retraced, she was met by the shower,—November rain, cutting and numbing as hail. Her veil, flimsy defence for her face, was dripping in a moment, and the water streamed in miniature cascades from her bonnet and shoulders. Bewildered and dizzy, she sprang, without a thought, except the instinct of self-preservation, into the shelter of a friendly porch. She laughed, despite her uneasiness at her situation. "Wet, not quite to the skin, but more damp than is comfortable; sans umbrella, over-shoes, carriage or servant, and where, I cannot precisely determine."

"Walk in,do!" said a pleasant voice behind her. A lady was holding the open door. "I thank you," Ida began, when a figure glanced out of the entry. "Why, Ida! my dear creature! how wet you are! don't stand there a moment. I am so glad you ran in! This is my sister, Mrs. Dana—my friend, Miss Ross—now we will go directly up stairs, and take off your damp things!" and in the confusion of congratulations and regrets, Ida did not know where she was, until she was seated in Carry's room; both sisters occupied in divesting her of such portions of her apparel, as were likely, by their humidity, to endanger her health.

"You are very kind," she said; "but I cannot wait to have these dried. I must go home."

"Impossible!" cried the impulsive Carry. "I will not hear of it. Just make up your mind to stay in your present quarters until clear weather."

"Let me insist upon your staying, Miss Ross;" said Mrs. Dana. "I will send a messenger to your friends to inform them of your safety."

"She will stay," said Carry, looking very positive.

Ida yielded with secret pleasure. Her guardian angel must have guided her into this haven. Mrs. Dana was Carry's senior by ten years or more, and resembled her more in voice and manner, than feature. They had the same kind eyes and dimpling smile. Having seen her guest comfortable, she gave her into Carry's charge, and went to forward her message to Mr. Read. "How it rains!" said Carry, drawing aside the curtain. "It is lucky you came when you did. Did you know we lived here?"

"No, it was entirely accidental. I was walking, and did not notice the clouds until the shower came; then I took refuge in the nearest house."

"A happy accident for me," said Carry. "I despaired of ever persuading you to visit me. This storm was sent for my express benefit. Sister and I are never tired of each other's company; but the little ones demand much of her time; and brother John—Mr. Dana, often brings home writing, or is detained at the store late at night, in the busy season, and I am rather lonely."

"You are bent upon convincing me that all the obligation is on your side," returned Ida: "but compare the mermaid-like fright which shocked you, with the decent young lady before you now, and recollect that my gratitude is proportionate to the improvement."

A pretty little girl, about five years old, crept into the room.

"Come to aunt, Elle!" said Carry. "And speak to this lady."

The child came up timidly to Ida, and slid her plump hand into hers. She did not struggle, as she lifted her into her lap, but looked steadfastly at her with her soft black eyes. "What is your name?" asked Ida.

"Elinor Dana," she answered, in her clear, childish voice.

"Elinor!" repeated Ida, and the little one felt herself pressed more closely to her breast."

"Do you like it?" inquired Carry.

"It was mymother'sname!" was the low reply. Elle put up her lips for a kiss. She saw a pained look flit over the countenance of the visitor, and administered the only panacea she possessed.

"Is she your sister's oldest child?" asked Ida, repaying the caress.

"Yes. She has two younger; a boy and a girl. The babe is my namesake."

"My brother is named Charles Arthur; after uncle Charley and uncle Arthur," ventured Elle.

"And you love him very dearly,—do you not?" said Ida.

"Yes ma'am; I love papa and mamma, and aunt Carry, and uncle Charley, and uncle Arthur, and grandpa, and sister and brother," said the child, running over the names with a volubility that showed how used she was to the repetition.

"Will you love me too?" asked Ida. The anxiety with which she awaited the reply will not be sneered at by those who have been, like her, starvelings in affection.

"Yes, you too, but I don't know what to call you."

"My name is Ida."

"Miss Ida, or cousin Ida?"

"Cousin!" exclaimed Ida, catching at the word. "Call me cousin!"

"Elle claims as relatives, all whom she loves," observed Carry; "and we encourage her in the practice. Miss is formal; and the absence of any such prefix gives a disrespectful air to a child's address."

"She speaks of her uncles. Have you brothers?"

"She alludes to Mr. Dana's brothers," said Carry, with a slight blush, which Ida remembered afterwards. "They were wards of my father's; and we regard them as a part of the family."

Ida amused herself by coaxing forth Elle's prattle; and related, as reward for her sociability, a marvellous fairy tale, which expanded her eyes to their utmost circle, and interested even Carry. Mrs. Dana entered at the finale.

"Papa has come, Elle, and would be happy to see Miss Ross. Tea is ready, too. I hope she has not annoyed you,"—to Ida.

"Annoyed! oh no, ma'am! we are good friends, and have had a nice talk, have we not, darling?"

Playing with a child is a very puerile amusement—what room is there for the exercise of the reasoning faculties; what opportunity for gaining new views of the world or of truth? Still Ida was happier, and she was silly enough to think, wiser. A germ was set, which should be developed by and by.

Mr. Dana was in the supper-room. He was tall and dark, grave-looking when silent; but as he acknowledged the introduction to herself, and stooped to kiss Elle, his smile rendered him exceedingly handsome. The proud tenderness of his wife was beautiful to behold; and he unbent all that was stern in his nature, in her presence, or Carry's. The repast went off delightfully. There were no sarcastic flings at society and individuals, and clash of combat, imperfectly drowned by courteous phraseology, such as characterized similar occasions at Mr. Read's. Free to act and speak, without dread of criticism, Ida acquitted herself well. She and her entertainers were equally charmed; and Carry sat by, contented with the success of her benevolent efforts. Mr. Dana's business required his attention immediately after supper; Mrs. Dana sat with the girls awhile, then repaired to her nursery. "We shall not be troubled by visitors to-night," said Carry. "What say you to adjourning to our chamber? It is more snug than these empty parlors."

They visited the nursery in their way. Elle opened her eyes as her friend kissed her coral lips, but their lids fell again directly, and her "good night" died in a drowsy murmur. The boy was sleeping soundly, and little Carry lay quietly wakeful upon her mother's lap. "These are my treasures," said the fond parent, smiling at Ida's admiration of the group.

"Treasures she would not barter for the wealth of both Indies," added Carry. "You are a diplomatist, Ida, you have found sister's blind side by praising her pets."

"You, who are so accustomed to these pretty playthings, do not know how lovely they are to one who is not so favored," replied Ida.

"Ah! there you are in error. No one can love the sweetangels as I do, except the mother who bore them. Now," continued she, when they were in their room, taking from a wardrobe two dressing-gowns, "I move that we don these, and make ourselves comfortable generally."

And cozily comfortable they appeared, ensconced in armchairs, in front of that most sparkling of coal-fires; a waiter of apples and nuts sent up by thoughtful Mrs. Dana, on a stand between them; shutters and curtains closed, and the storm roaring and driving without.

"I no longer wonder at your cheerfulness, since I have seen your home," said Ida. "All the good things of life are mingled in your cup."

"You are right. I am very happy, but not more so than hundreds of others. My contentment would be grievously marred, if I suspected this was not so."

"Fraternizing again. I have reflected and observed much since our talk in the cemetery, and am almost persuaded that you have chosen the easiest method of living; that 'where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' Your system has brought most pleasure thus far, whether it will endure the test of time and experience, is another question."

"You alarm me," answered Carry. "Your vague hints excite my curiosity, yet do not indicate the description of dangers I am to encounter. Let us understand each other—as the Methodist class-leaders have it, 'tell our experiences.'"

"Mine may be briefly summed up," said Ida, sadly.

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