CHAPTER XX.

"Young, loving and beloved!These are brief words, but—"

An exclamation interrupted the quotation. She snatched up a letter from the table. "It must have come this afternoon, and they forgot to give it me. How unkind!" This was too public a place, there was constant passing in and out; but she could not be debarred its perusal until the guests' departure. A closet opened beyond the chamber; she carried a lamp in thither, and bolted the door. He wrote kindly, but more constrainedly than formerly; and the sense of some phrases was confused, as if he had commenced them, meaning to say one thing, and changed his mind ere the conclusion. His sister had been very ill, he said, but was now out of danger; and his statement of this simple fact appeared embarrassed. She read two pages in perplexity whether to chide his ambiguity, or her unsettled thoughts; "And now, my dear friend," so ran the third, "I have to solicit indulgence for my egotism, while I speak of an event of incomparable importance—and than which, nothing was more remote from my thoughts, four months ago. Annie has another nurse besides myself this summer; an early playmate of ours, a gentle girl, who, I think, must resemble your friend Carry, in character and person. She visited Annie early in April; and an angel of healing she has proved to our beloved sufferer. It is an affecting sight—one so young and fair, desertingthe society she would adorn, for the wearisome offices of a sick-room. I have said that she is gentle, and in disposition and deportment essentially feminine;—add to these, the intelligence and accomplishments of a strong and thoroughly-trained mind; and you will not be surprised that she has gained our hearts;—will not accuse me of precipitancy, when you hear that I have sought and obtained her promise to return to us, united by a dearer tie than the bonds of friendship. I do not merit this gift at the hands of Providence; for I have rebelled, in times past, at the strokes I knew were just, but could not acknowledge were merciful. There is nothing earthly which can compare with the love of a true-hearted woman.—If I ever needed an incentive to industry I have it in this. Months—years, perhaps—must elapse before our union. It may be said, I have not acted prudently in forming an engagement, whose consummation is so distant; but I have obeyed the voice of my heart and conscience."

Aye! crumple the sheet in your grasp, and sink to the earth—a crushed thing! struck down from the zenith of your pride and bliss—crushed and mangled—but living andfeeling!Grief does not always stun—it seldom kills—you must live, although each lacerated heart-string is crying out for death! Say not that it came without warning! Was there no voice in your early bereavement—in the stern lessons of your girlhood—in the frustration of an hundred cherished purposes—in Lynn's suicidal madness—in Ellen's remorse—in Charley's withered heart? Why were you made to feel, see, know these, if not to teach you, that they who lean upon mortal's love trust to the weakest of rotten reeds—they "who sow the wind, must reap the whirl wind"—black, bitter, scorching!

"I never thought you unreasonable before, Ida."

"I am sorry you should now, Carry."

"How can I help it, when after travelling with us for weeks you suddenly resolve to return to Eastern Virginia by yourself; and to that lonesome place in the country, which you have not visited for years!"

"I have an escort; a gentleman who is on his way to Richmond, and will take charge of me."

"But why this notion, just as we decided to go north? Has your curiosity to behold Niagara diminished since your sight of 'the Bridge?'"

"Frankly and truly, I do not care to see it. I would not ride to the House Mountain yonder, if Mont Blanc, the Lake of Como, and the Great Fall were to be seen from the other side."

"Do you hear that, Arthur?" said Carry, despairingly, to her husband, who was reading.

"No—what is it?"

"This obstinate young lady is about to deprive us of the honour of her company. She is going back to Staunton to-morrow."

"To the Lunatic Hospital?" inquired Arthur, putting aside his book. "You are not in earnest, Ida? Are you tired of us; or do you dislike our sketched route? If the last, we will alter it."

"And if the first, we will alter ourselves," interposed Carry, laughingly.

"I would have you and your plans remain as they are. I am not well, and require rest—not change. My desire to see old Sunnybank is not a caprice, as Carry supposes; I have had it in contemplation for a long time. Mr. Read deterred me from it by representations of the discomfort I would encounter; the only white man left on the plantation being the overseer. This summer he has been removed, and his place given to a formertenant of mother's; a man of family; and the accommodations, which serve for them, will keep me from hardship."

"She is sick," said Carry, when Ida retired. "She has not been herself lately. Were it not that she is used to dissipation, I should think that the round of parties, after our wedding, overtasked her strength. Yet, she enjoyed them."

"Her malady may be of the mind," said Dr. Dana, thoughtfully. "Do you consider this probable?"

"Oh, no! she was well and happy when she came to us; and what can have occurred since to affect her?"

"You are right, I dare say;" returned he, absently. He was pondering upon her behaviour after Charley's departure.

Argument did not dissuade, and conjecture was baffled in the effort to explain this unexpected movement. They parted in Lexington—Ida to recross the mountains eastward; they, to travel north by way of Harper's Ferry.

If there is an enjoyment, which is purely of the intellect, its usurpation is man's high prerogative; the sticklers for woman's "equal rights" will never establish her title to it. The mind masculine may be nourished and exercised, and attain its full size, while the heart is dwarfed and sickly;—as with twin children, one sometimes grows to man's stature, healthy and strong; and the other pines and dies in childhood. In woman, intellect and the affections are united from their birth;—like the Siamese brothers, one refuses food, which is denied its companion; and who dare peril the life of both by severing the ligament which joins them?

Ida's route was through the garden-spot of our State—the magnificent Valley, with its heaven-bathed, impregnable eyries, among which our country's Father selected a resting-place for Freedom's standard—America's Thermopylæ, should the invader's power drive him from every other hold;—where one may travel for days, encircled by the Briarean arms, the sister ridges stretch, in amity, towards each other—each rolling its streams and clouds down to the verdant plains between;—where morning and evening, the sun marshals his crimson and gold-colored array upon the purple heights, which are coeval with him and Time; and flings shadows and hues athwart them, in his day's march, he never vouchsafes to Lowland countries;—andthis region was traversed with not a thought beyond a feverish wish to be at her journey's end and rest. She stopped in Richmond but one night. Mr. Read and his daughter were out of town, and she went to a hotel. At dawn she was upon the road, with no attendant but the driver of her hack. Rachel had gone to Sunnybank a month before, to see her relations, little expecting her mistress to come for her. Ida's spirits and health declined alarmingly, now that the necessity of eluding suspicion was over. She had never been sick a day in her life; but she began to feel that mental ills may be aggravated by bodily disease. The unnatural tension had been maintained too long. When Sunnybank appeared, she was unable to raise her head to look at it. The negroes flocked out at the phenomenon of a travelling carriage in the disused avenue; and loud were their astonishment and compassion, as they recognised its occupant.

"I have come home to die, mother," said she, as they lifted her out, and fainted in their arms. In the midst of their consternation, the family pride of the faithful underlings was stubborn. "Their young mistress should not be carried to the overseer's;" and Aunt Judy, the keeper of the keys, hurried off to unlock the house doors. Ida had a cloudy remembrance of awakening in her mother's chamber, and of a gleaming fancy, that she was once more a child, aroused from a horrid, horrid dream, then her senses forsook her, and there was a wide hiatus in memory. It was night when she awoke again; she was in the same room;—a fire burned in the chimney, and cast fantastic shapes upon the ceiling. Crouched in the corner of the fire-place, was a dusky figure, whose audible breathing sounded loudly through the apartment. Her slumbers were not very profound, however, for she sprang up at the feeble call—"Rachel!"

"Miss Ida! honey! what do you want?"

"How long have I slept? my head feels so strange!"

"That's because you've been sick, honey."

"What is the matter with me?"

"Fever, dear—you caught it in them dreadful mountains, and have been laid up for four weeks. But you'll git well, now—you were out of your head 'most all the time—and the doctor says you mustn't talk."

Ida desisted, too weak to disobey. With vague curiosity, she followed her with her eyes, as she smoothed the counterpane, pushed up the bed on one side, and patted it down on the other; then she put the "chunks" together upon the hearth, and there was the clinking of spoons and glasses at a table.

"Here's your drink, Miss Ida," she said, lifting her head with a care that proved her a practised nurse. It was cool and palatable, and the heavy lids sank in natural slumber.

Mr. Grant (the overseer) and his wife had not been remiss in their duty to the sick girl. She had the best medical attendance the county afforded; and Mr. Read was written to at the commencement of the attack; the letter was unanswered—probably not received. Rachel was "sure Miss Jenny or Miss Carry would come in a minute, if they knew she was sick;" but was ignorant of the address of either. Their nursing might have been more skilful, but it could not have exceeded hers in tenderness. She took turns with Mrs. Grant in watching, but she never left the room except for her meals. She was amply repaid for her labor of love by the improvement which henceforward was apparent in her patient. Her raptures awoke no responsive harmony in Ida's bosom.

Her physician was a son of Mr. Hall, the old minister, who had gone to his rest.

"You must exert yourself, Miss Ida," said he. "Have you walked yet?"

"No, sir."

"Cannot you do it?"

"I don't know, indeed, sir."

"But, my dear child, nature cannot do everything; we must aid her. It is as binding upon us to save our own lives, as those of others."

"When they are worth saving."

"You want more powerful tonics than any I have;" said the doctor, eyeing her curiously. "I must think your case over. Icommandyou to walk across the room twice to-day, three times to-morrow, and so on. See that she minds me, Rachel!"

Rachel gave her no peace, until she consented to sit up awhile in the easy-chair, by the window. Sunnybank was sadly changed. The buildings and enclosures were in good repair, and the fieldscultivated; but the walks and shrubbery were neglected; and the garden, into which Ida was looking, overgrown with high weeds. Here and there a rose-tree struggled for a foothold, a scanty growth of yellow leaves clinging to the mossy stems; the sweetbrier still hung over the window, its long, bare arms rattling in the cold wind like fleshless bones; the tangled grass in the yard had run to seed, and piles of dead leaves were heaped against the palings. She could not see the grave-yard; she knew, though, that the willows were leafless, and how the sprays were waving in their melancholy dance, and whispering their old song—"Alone!" If alone then, how now? sick—dying, perhaps! where were those who had proudly borne the name of friend? where the sister, in whose bosom she had lain for months, and eased her sorrows and heightened her joys? the brother, she had averred, was "all kindness and truth?" and oh! where he, who had filled her heart to the brim with the rich, red wine of life, to change, in a moment, to fiery, deadly poison! She felt no resentment against him; she was too utterly broken-hearted, she thought, even if she had cause; and she had not. Her wilful self-deception had been her snare; instead of studying his heart, she had judged it by her own. Were his candor—his undisguised interest in her welfare, tokens of love, that ever seeks concealment? No! he had tried to lead her, a wayward child, to the paths of happiness; and she had seen nought but the hand which pointed the way. There was prophetic meaning in Lynn's eye, when he spoke of "the finest growth of heart and soul, which you flattered yourself were climbing heavenward, twining with strengthening tendrils around the altar of that one love!" She had been impious enough to imagine that she was imbibing a fondness for holy things; her heart had burned within her, as he talked of the loved theme; she had read the Scriptures, and prayed, in words, for light and guidance. And by the fierce rebellion which fired her breast—rebellion against—hatred of the Being, this lip service had blasphemed, she knew that she had never bowed in soul to Him; and her heart—broken, though she said it was,—trusting still—adoring still the mortal, through the great love she bore him—yet reared itself in angry defiance, saying to the Chastener,—"I will not submit!" What had she done, to be left desolate—comfortless in the spring-time of life! "He is, they tell me, merciful and all-powerful;—let Him give me back my love, and I will believe in Him." And as day by day passed, and there were no tidings of Carry or the Danas, she felt a morose complacency in the confirmation of her hard thoughts of them, and in repeating, "I am not humbled yet!"

"Uncle Will wants to know if he can come in to see you, Miss Ida," said Rachel, one Sabbath afternoon.

Ida was dressed, and rocking herself listlessly before the fire. "Let him come," she replied, languidly.

This man was her mother's steward and factotum; a hale, fine-looking negro; better educated than the generality of his caste, and devotedly pious. He brushed off a tear with the back of his hand, as his mistress greeted him. He had not seen her since she was grown, and was moved by her likeness to her mother.

"You would not have known me,—would you, uncle Will?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am; you are your mother's own child."

"Indeed! I am called like my father."

"You're likeher, ma'am—in body, and like her in spirit, too I hope."

"No, Uncle Will, you cannot expect that;—she was an angel."

"Better than that, Mistis—she was a Christian!"

"And how is that better?" said Ida, surprised at the reply. "She is an angel now—is she not?"

"No ma'am; she is one of the spirits of the just made perfect; and according to my notion, that's better than to be a born seraph. Angels may praise and glorify the Lamb, but they haven't so much to be thankful for as we."

"I do not understand you. They have been happy from all Eternity; and those who have lived in this world, have had sorrow and pain and sin—'mourning all their days.'"

"They needn't, ma'am—

'Why should the children of a KingGo mourning all their days!'"

said Will readily—"He holds us up under whatever trouble we have; unless we bring it upon ourselves by our transgressions,and He will deliver us then, if we call to Him. The Saviour is the Christian's glory and song—He didn't die for angels."

Ida mused. "There is a question I wish to ask you," said she. "God can do as He pleases;—can He not?"

"Certainly, Mistis—'He worketh according to the counsel of His own will.'"

"And He is very pitiful and gracious?" she continued.

"Like as a father pitieth his children, Mistis."

"Then when He knows that we are miserable and sinful and helpless, why does not He take pity on us, and make us good and happy?"

"He will, ma'am."

"But He does not. He only waits for us to love anything, before He robs us of it. So far from liking to see us happy, it would seem that He grudged us the poor crumbs we picked up of ourselves."

"Because they ain't good for us, Mistis."

"Why did He allow us to take them, then? why wait, until we have tasted and found them sweet, before He snatches them away?"

"I remember, Mistis, when you were a little thing, no higher than my knee, you were mightily taken with some red peppers growing in the garden. Your mother called you away from the bed, four or five times, and ordered you not to touch them. By and by I spied you running down the walk towards them, when you thought she didn't see you; and I was starting in a hurry to fetch you back, but she stopped me. 'No, Will!' says she, 'the punishment sin brings with it, is remembered longer than a hundred warnings. She will have a useful lesson.' I was loath to have you hurt; but I had to mind her. Your lesson was right hard; for your mouth and face and hands were swelled and burning for hours. But you didn't go near the pepper-bed again. And it seems to me, ma'am, that the Almighty treats us just so. We run crazy after things, that are like the red peppers,—pretty outside, but hot as fire when we get to playing with them. He doesn't push us towards them—He lets us alone; and we are mighty apt to run to Him, after we've got a fair taste. You didn't know but your mother would whip you for disobeying her; but you went straight to her when you felt the smart."

"This does not follow, of course, uncle Will. I have tasted some hot peppers since those days; and I cannot see any mercy or use in the lesson."

"Maybe you haven't asked an explanation, ma'am."

"From whom? from you?"

"No ma'am! From Him, unto whom belong the deep things of the Almighty. And if He doesn't show you their meaning now—He will, sometime. Children are often puzzled at their parents' dealings."

As he was leaving, she observed his wistful look.

"Have you any requests to make, uncle Will? you will not ask anything unreasonable, I know."

"I hope not, ma'am. You see—we've been in the habit of holding our Sunday night prayer-meetings in the basement-room, under this. We used to meet there in your mother's time. She had the room fixed on purpose for us. When it's clear weather, in summer, we meet out-doors;—it's getting cool now—"

"And you are afraid of disturbing me; is that it?"

"Yes ma'am," said he, relieved.

"You may be quite easy as regards that. Has that room been ceiled yet?"

"No ma'am—'twould have been if—you all had stayed here."

"I am glad that it is not. I can hear your hymns—how I used to love those old tunes! Have your meeting. I wish I had no other disturbance!"

He had got into the entry, when she recalled him; and with the sad smile she had worn during their conversation, said, "Uncle Will! if you think I have not done hankering after forbidden fruit, you may pray, that I may be cured."

"I will, Mistis! God bless you!"

She had forgotten, and Will did not know, that all the services could be heard through the floor. The worshippers assembled so quietly, that she was not aware of this, until Will's tones startled her with the idea that he was in the room. He commenced the exercises by reading the fourteenth chapter of John's gospel. "Let not your hearts be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me." He offered neither comment nor explanation. He was a believer in what he called "the pure Word;""if I can't comprehend one part," he was wont to say, "I comfort myself by thinking that there is so much that is plain even to my weak understanding." The quavering voice of an aged man led in prayer; and in spite of its verbiage and incorrect grammar, Ida listened, for it was sincere. They sang in the sweet voices for which the race is so remarkable,

"There is a land of pure delight,"

with a wild, beautiful chorus, repeated each time with more emphasis and fervor—

"Oh sing to me of Heaven!In Heaven alone, no sin is known,And there's no parting there!"

Ida shut her eyes and lay motionless, lest she should lose a note. Forgetful of her unholy enmity to her God—her distrust of her kind—borne upon the melody her soul arose to Pisgah's top, and looked yearningly upon the "sweet fields beyond the swelling flood," heard the jubilant song of the redeemed—

"In Heaven alone, no sin is known,And there's no parting there!"

A solemn hush followed; and Will said, "Let us pray." His deliberate accents quickened into animation, with the unfolding of his petitions; spurning the fetters of his imperfect speech, his thoughts clothed themselves in the language of the Divine Word; coming to a King, be adopted unconsciously the vernacular of princes. In speaking of Ida, his manner was earnestly affectionate. "We beseech Thee, O Father, to deal gently with thine handmaid, whom thou hast set over us in worldly things. Thou hast seen fit that she should bear the yoke in her youth, hast made her to possess wearisome nights, and days of vanity; hast mingled her bread with tears, and her drink with weeping; Thou hast taken from her father and mother,—the hope of her soul, and the desire of her eyes; it is the Lord's doings, and it is marvellous in our eyes and in hers. Lighten her eyes, Our Father! though weeping has endured for a night, Thou hast promised that joy shall come in the morning; tell her, that no affliction for the present seemeth joyous, but grievous; but that Thou wilt make it work out for her an eternal weight of glory; that whom Thou lovest Thou chasteneth, andupon Thy Blessed Son Thou didst lay the afflictions and iniquities of us all. May her hungry soul run to Him, from the far country in which she has been living, and may He heal her broken bones, give her the oil of gladness for mourning—the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."

The hot, dry channel was broken up, and tears flowed in plenteous measure. From the softening soul sprang her first real prayer. "Oh! be my Father and Comforter!"

When Rachel awoke in the morning, she saw that her mistress had unbarred the shutters of the window by her bed, and was reading. Her face had a still deeper shade of gloom; but the attached girl drew a favorable augury from this mark of interest in anything, except her own thoughts. The book was a mother's gift—a Bible; she had read it with tolerable regularity for the giver's sake, but she found herself now lamentably ignorant of its contents. She read of the unapproachable purity of the Immaculate, of judgment and justice; denunciation of the wicked, and the "fearful looking for of vengeance" that remained to rebellious children; in vain she searched it for a message to her—a promise she could apply. Her alarm augmented, as the fruitlessness of her endeavors became apparent. The life she had lightly esteemed was inestimably dear, as she realised what eternity was; and her heart was still with fear at the thought of the uncertain tenure by which she held it. In times past she would have blushed at these shakings of spirit; now she could not banish them. She would not be left alone an instant; she was afraid to sleep, lest she should not awake in time. She had said, "what evil have I done?" she saw now that she had committed evil, and that continually; as she beheld "idolatry, hatred, variance, emulation, wrath, envyings" in the same enumeration with monstrous vices—a catalogue which brings to our ears the warring clash of Pandemonium, rendered more horribly discordant by contrast with the gentle music of "Love, joy, peace, long-suffering."

In angry despair she threw the volume aside; but tortured conscience drove her to it again. "Iwillbe a Christian," was her primal resolve,—as the terrors of the law flamed before her—"Imustbe!" and a week of labor and agony ended in a total sinking of hope, and an exhausted cry, "I cannot!"

It was a calm Sabbath in the Indian Summer, and her chair was wheeled to the door. The "summer's late, repentant smile" shone fondly upon the landscape; the russet fields, the dismantled forests, the swift-rolling river.

She had seen it look just so, often; when the breeze played among the child's curls, and lent a quicker bound to a light heart—but faded in body—prematurely old in spirit—she saw no beauty in earth—had no treasure in heaven. Her Bible was upon her knees; she turned the pages indolently, and was saying, for the hundredth time, "No hope!" when a passage appeared to start up from the page. Could it have been there while she sought it carefully and with tears? "The Lord hath called thee as a woman, forsaken and grieved in spirit; and as a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith my God. For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee; in a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer. * * * * Oh! thou afflicted, tossed with tempests, and not comforted! behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires!"

As Will passed under the window on his way to Church, he was arrested by an unusual sound. No one was visible, but his heart and eyes ran over, as he recognised the voice that sang softly—

"Other refuge have I none,Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;Leave, oh! leave me not alone,Still support and comfort me.All my trust on Thee is stayed,All my help from Thee I bring;Cover my defenceless headWith the shadow of Thy wing."

The trembling which mingled with her transport, was so foreign to Ida's ardent temperament, that she doubted sometimes, if she had indeed found peace. But as her filial love and trust strengthened with time, she rejoiced with more hope. Much of the old leaven was left; her imperious temper still chafed at restraint, and she was disheartened at the discovery, that the loveliest of the "Blessed Three" graces was most difficult to practise. She leaned upon a Saviour's arm, and was willing to walk in the ways of His appointment, but the weak heart pleaded that He would not send her back into the world. Sweet Sunnybank, rich in associations;—with its peaceful duties and holy enjoyments, must be more favorable to the advancement of her new life;—she hoped against hope, that she might be permitted to remain. A letter from her guardian settled the point. With laconic terseness, he declared the thing "impossible. By her father's will, the estate was hers, when she was of age; until then, no preparatory step could be taken." Her scheme had been to invite a sister of Mrs. Grant, an excellent woman, now dependent upon her brother-in-law, to reside with her, in the capacity of housekeeper and companion; and leaving the control of her finances in Mr. Read's hands, to devote herself to the improvement of her servants and poor neighbors. It was a praiseworthy enterprise, and it cost her a sharp pang to resign it, and prepare for the return, her guardian pressed, "as desirable and proper." Her trunks were packed; and she had come in from a tour of the negro cabins, and a visit to her mother's grave, to spend the last twilight in the room in which she was born—in which her mother had died. The November blast howled in the chimney;—here it was the music of early days;—in Richmond, it would be so dreary!

She was not gloomy, although the firelight glistened upon cheeks wet with tears;—she was not going away, as she had come—alone; still she was sad at quitting her retreat, and in the prospect of the temptations awaiting her. There would be trials,too—trials of faith and patience and charity—and trials of feeling—what if she should be found wanting! But a whisper tranquilised her—"Fear not—Iam with thee!" Mrs. Grant opened the door. She held a lamp whose rays blinded Ida's tender eyes.

"A gentleman to see you, Miss Ida,—and as there was no fire in the drawing-room, I've asked him into the dining-room;" announced the dame, who was remarkable rather for sterling goodness, than for grace and discretion. The door of communication was wide open, and Ida had no alternative but to walk directly into the adjoining apartment. Charley Dana met her, ere she had advanced three steps beyond the doorway. He was so shocked at her altered appearance that he could not speak at once, but stood, pressing her hands in his, and gazing into her face with inexpressible solicitude and tenderness. She must make an exertion.

"This is kind, Charley! Am I to flatter myself that you have turned out of your way to see me?"

"No. I have looked neither to the right nor to the left. I came by the most direct route from Richmond. Sit down—you are not able to stand—and give an account of yourself. What in the name of all that is ridiculous and outrageous, brought you here alone, and has kept you here until the middle of the winter?"

"Not so bad as that, Charley! It is only the last month of Autumn. I came, because I did not want to go North, and was pining for a sight of the old place; and have been sick ever since. But tell me of yourself. When did you return, and why have not you written to me?"

"That is what I call 'iced!'" said Charley, with a laugh that sounded like former times. "Haven't I sent letters to every post-office in the Union, and not received a line in answer, since you parted company with Arthur and Carry? I arrived at home, ten days ago. Mr. Read 'presumed' you were 'yet in the country, and would be back when you were ready:' John and Jenny were in the dark; had written and inquired to no purpose: daily dispatches were pouring in from Arthur, certifying that Carry was nearly deranged with anxiety. Yesterday, Imet Mr. Read, who told me you had been 'indisposed,' but would be down shortly. I asked your address, and here I am!"

"You could not be more welcome anywhere; but how unaccountable that your letters miscarried!"

"Easily explained! I stopped down the road, at a house, half-tavern, half-store, where I espied 'Post Office,' painted upon a shingle, hung out of a dirty window; and inquired the name of the place. 'Thompsonburg;' said the P.M. 'Burg,' indeed! 'I thought there was an office in this neighborhood, called 'Oakland;'" said I.

"'Oh! that's discontinued more than a year ago;' answered he. ''Twas at the Cross-roads below.'"

Simple solution of a mystery which had led her to doubt her best earthly friends! Charley looked at her intently.

"'Indisposition,' forsooth! Why, I'll be hanged—"

"No you wont, Charley! Don't say so."

"Shot, then! if I am sure that I am not talking to a spirit! You've been to Death's door. What made you sick?"

"Oh! a variety of causes."

"Which means, it's no business of mine to inquire. All I have to say is, that your friends would not have treated you, as you have them. If I had died in Missouri, I would have left 'good-bye,' and a lock of my hair for you. You might have departed this life twenty times, and we been none the wiser."

"How quarrelsome you are! I'll never do so again, if you'll forgive me this once."

"Forgive! I have nothing to forgive—you were privileged to do as you pleased;—only, if you had said adieu to the land of the living, it would have been a gratification to us to know it."

Ida laughed out so merrily that Mrs. Grant, who was superintending the setting of the tea-table, raised her spectacles to look at her, and smiled gratifiedly. She and her husband sat at the table, and the guest's "sociable ways" ingratiated him with them, before the meal was half over. They retired with the waiters, and Charley, dropping his bantering tone, established himself for a "quiet coze." It was strange that he should be the first confidant of Ida's change of heart;—he, whom men styled careless—sometimes "scoffer."

He did not scoff now;—he paid diligent heed to her recital,and when it was finished—"From my soul, I congratulate you!" he exclaimed. "Would to Heaven, that I too believed!"

"You may;" said Ida, timidly.

"You do not know the thickness of the crust around my heart, Ida;—the unbelief, and ingratitude and worldliness. I can battle with men, and wear a bravado mask; but I do not forget that I have a soul, and that it must be attended to. Whether I will ever do it, I cannot say. I think I must be the most hardened of sinners;—Lynn's death would have subdued a less obdurate heart;—and do you know that, while thoroughly persuaded that it was a judgment aimed full at me—for he was my dearest friend, and I felt his loss, most of all who mourned him—I hated the Power which had dealt the blow, and scorned angrily the presumption, that I could be forced into measures!"

"You were not more wicked than I was. There is not a truer sentence in the Bible, than that the 'carnal mind is enmity against God.' Ah! Charley! if we loved holy things more! It is so mortifying to find our thoughts straying away from these subjects, when we are most desirous of contemplating them!"

"That is the fault of Old Adam—the 'body of death,' Paul writes of;" replied he. "I am not much of a Bible scholar, but it strikes me he says something in the next verse of a Deliverer, 'who giveth us the victory.' Why are Christians ever low-spirited, I wonder."

And poor Ida upbraided herself with the same query, many times within the next few days. She bore the partings and the journey better than Charley had feared she would. He did his best to save her pain and fatigue, but he saw, with secret reverence, that she was supported by a stronger Friend.

"We are almost there!" said he, letting down the carriage-window, upon the afternoon of their second day's travel.

Ida leaned out, and beheld the spires and roofs of the city. She was unprepared for the effect the sight had upon her. Recollections of her years of loneliness; the trials of her home-life; the one friendship of her school days; a brother's fondness, and his doom; her love and its blight—rushed upon her with overwhelming force—she fell back upon the cushions, and wept aloud. She had not entirely recovered her composure, when they stopped at Mr. Read's door. Josephine hardly knew the wasted figure,Charley carried, rather than led into the house; and Mr. Read was, for once, shocked out of his dignity.

"Why! Mr. Dana! Miss Ida! bless my soul and body!" was hisuncharacteristic exclamation.

Charley was in no humour for trifling, or he would have said, "Amen!"

"Miss Ida's indisposition was not so unimportant as you supposed, you see, sir;" said he sarcastically. "Thanks to the kind attentions of hercountryfriends, she is now convalescent."

"Hush, Charley!please!" said a distressed whisper from the sofa, where he had laid her. "Mr. Grant wrote to you, Mr. Read;" said she, aloud; "but as you were travelling, we doubted whether you received the letter."

"I didnot;" he answered, the flush going off from his brow.

"I was so carefully nursed, I did not require other attention;" she continued. "I should have regretted it, if your summer's enjoyment had been interrupted needlessly. Dr. Hall, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant were untiring in their kindness; and Rachel here, ought to have a diploma to practice medicine."

It was a maxim with Mr. Read, that for every mischance, blame must rest somewhere; and Ida, having exculpated him, he could not do less than return the compliment, by pitching it back upon her.

"I do not presume to lecture you, Miss Ross; but you will admit that this freak of yours was one of unsurpassed imprudence. You left my roof under the protection of those, whom I considered fit guardians for a young lady." Charley made a movement to speak; but Ida's imploring glance restrained him. "I hear nothing of you for a long time; and you write, at last, from an uninhabited country-house, begging permission to take up your abode there. I refuse the preposterous request, and you are brought home reduced and weakened by a severe illness, of which I have not been informed. I cannot be responsible for what the world will say to all this, Miss Ross!"

The rack could not have silenced Charley now. "I will tell you what the world's opinion is, sir; and hold you responsible for your own words. 'The world' has said, in my hearing, that the guardian, who loses sight of a ward—a member of his family—for six months, without being apprised of, or inquiring intoher locality and welfare, is unworthy of his trust. And if I describe his reception of an invalid, who might have perished through neglect, for all he knew or cared—'the world,' sir, will declare indignantly, that he is a disgrace to society and mankind! I have nothing more to say at present. If you take exception to my liberty of speech, you can call on me, and relieve your mind. Miss Ida, let me recommend to you to retire; Mr. Read will finish his lecture tome—good afternoon, Miss Read. Sir, I have the honor to bid you good-day!"

Josephine burst forth with a torrent of invective: which Ida did not stay to hear; nor did she see either of them again for two days. She was not well enough to go below; and they avoided her chamber.

Mrs. Dana called that evening. Ida was preparing for bed; and she supplanted Rachel as maid and nurse. Her softest, most nimble of hands undressed the tired, dispirited girl; smoothed the pillows; and gave her a composing draught; and with her kiss warm upon her lips, her pitying eyes watching over her, and a prayer of thankfulness at her heart, Ida fell asleep.

She learned to expect a daily visit from this dear friend; and rarely looked in vain. At her third coming she brought a note from Charley. "He was happy to state;" he said; "that the skirmish which had excited her uneasiness, had arrived at a bloodless issue. Mr. Read and himself had had an interview; he had apologised for using language to him, in his own house, which he considered himself justifiable in employing anywhere else; and Mr. Read excused his harshness to her, by representing the excitement of surprise and alarm, under which he was laboring at the time. It was agreed the matter should stop there—that is;" wrote Charley; "that his bugbear, the world, shall not get hold of it."

Josephine had received her orders; for she carried her work into Ida's chamber, that day, and sat one hour, to a minute, never opening her lips, save in monosyllables to the questions Ida forced herself to ask. Abandoning seclusion so soon as she had sufficient strength, the latter joined the family at meals, and remained longer in their society than she was wont to do formerly; and if her hope of eventually conquering their dislikedid not increase, her meekness and patience did. She had occasion for it all. Josephine was quick to discover that she was happier in her affliction and debility, than she was in health and prosperity; and when the truth came to light, her natural malignity to the cause, and her hatred of its humble professor triumphed in the fiendish anticipation of how she could, by deriding one, wound the other. She would have descried soil upon an angel's robe. Ida was a young Christian, contending with the manifold disadvantages of temper, habit and irreligious associates; and her wily assailant was not passive long for lack of weapons and opportunity for her warfare. Any symptom of a convalescent's irritability; the utterance of a taste or opinion, which did not tally with her standard of consistency, was marked and laid by for use; and no complaisance or concession on Ida's part, moved her purpose. Mr. Read paid his pew-rent, went to church once every fine Sunday, and had a pleasant impression that by so doing, he was "keeping along;" paying interest as it were, upon the debt, sanguine that when the distant pay-day arrived, he would be able, by one prodigious effort, to discharge the principal. He "hated cant, because it was silly and useless" and if he did not chime in his daughter's slurs upon religion, and the conduct of Christians, he never rebuked her by word or sign. Watchfully, prayerfully, Ida strove to keep her feet in the path, and by no misstep or fall, to cast obloquy upon the name she loved.

Anna Talbot, a friendly, good-natured girl—her brother's superior in sense and feeling, was a near neighbor; and she ran in directly after breakfast one morning, full of a ball to which she was invited. Josephine had a ticket also, and was wishing for her—she must consult her about her dress.

"Ma has bought me a lovely white silk," said Anna. "I am to wear sprigged illusion over it—but oh! I was so disappointed! I wanted silver-sprigged, you know, like that Miss What's-her-name, from Philadelphia, wore to Mrs. Porter's party—but although I ransacked every store in the city, I could not find a piece. What will you get, Josey?"

"I have not quite determined."

"Do let us dress alike! There is another pattern of silk at P——'s."

"Well! I will look at it. What head-dress?" inquired Josephine.

"Oh! that's another novelty! I saw two darling little loves of wreaths down town—rose-buds and lilies-of-the-valley—pure white. I asked Mrs. V—— to lay them aside until to-day. I thought of you."

The "darling little loves" were pronouncedau fait.

"What ornaments?" said Josephine, who was in her element.

Anna made a gesture of despair. "There's the trouble! I have nothing but those rubies, and they will not do at all. I dislike to go without any; but it cannot be helped."

"Pearls would correspond well with your dress," observed Ida.

"Ah, yes! my dear! and if I had a pearl fishery, I would draw upon my divers forthwith;—unfortunately I have not."

"Are you certain?" returned Ida, smiling. "Imagine me a diver. I have a neat set, which is at your service, if you will honor me by wearing it."

"Oh! you dearest of girls!" exclaimed Anna. "But you want them yourself—I beg your pardon—I forgot you were in mourning;—but your black is not too deep for ornaments."

"But her odor of sanctity is too strong," said Josephine. "She has renounced the pomps and vanities you and I love, Anna, and 'put on the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' How do you reconcile it with your conscience, to let your pearls attend a ball, Ida? How much scouring and praying will cleanse them again for your use?"

"Oh! I will get you or Anna to air them for me, once in a while, and trust to time to purify them," said Ida, willing to pass it off as a joke.

"Do you really think it sinful to go to balls?" asked Anna, wonderingly.

"I could not do it innocently," replied Ida.

"Why not? you used to like them as well as the rest of us."

"For pity's sake! no sermonising!" rudely interrupted Josephine. "I can show you the root of her piety in two words. Don't you remember a certain gentleman, whose handsome face and saintly smile set off his religion so well?"

"Oh!" laughed Anna; "but I thought he liked her very well as she was."

"Nothing like making assurance doubly sure!" answered the other. "Pity he did not return to town this winter. Love's labor is lost."

"Why, Ida! what a flirt you are!" cried Anna. "When everybody says you are engaged to Mr. Dana!"

"Everybody is wrong, then," said Ida, calmly.

"Everybody isright!" contradicted Josephine. "She reads in her Bible, that she 'must love all men;' and her being in mourning for one beau, and dying with love for another, are no impediments to her engagement with a third. This is Platonism with a vengeance."

"Fie! Josephine!" said Anna, perceiving by Ida's face, that the pleasantry, as she still thought it, was going too far. "You know, as well as I do, that Mr. Holmes was only a friend. Mrs. Dana is in black for him too—it is as reasonable to say that she was in love with him."

"She may have been, for anything I know to the contrary;" retorted Josephine, growing more and more insolent. "I don't pretend to understand the morals of 'the clique.'"

"I am going up stairs, Anna," said Ida, "and will send you the pearls. If they please you, you are welcome to them, whenever you wish them."

Anna pulled her down. "Don't go! I want to talk with you. You must not regard Josephine's nonsense—it is only a foolish jest."

"One, which must not be repeated!" said Ida. "I may not notice an insult to myself, but if my friends are slandered, I must defend them."

"Defend them, as long and loud as you choose;" replied Josephine, retaining her disagreeable smile and tone. "Recriminate too, if you like. It is but politic in you to fight for your patrons. Aha! that flash of the eye was Christian-like! Did you never observe, Anna, that when the 'brethren' are wrought up to the belligerent point, they are the fiercest of combatants?"

Ida hurried up stairs—threw herself upon the bed, and cried bitterly; unobservant of Rachel's presence.

"Oh! Father! pity me! I am so weak and wicked!" she prayed.

Rachel went out boiling with rage.

"More of that Evil's work! Hope I may be forgiven for saying sech a word, but if she didn't come from the bottomless ditch, I should jist like to bereformed whar she was made! I know mighty well whar she'll go. I ain't a goin' to stand it! Miss Ida shan't be terrified forever and ever. I'll speak my mind to Miss Jenny, before I'm a day older; maybe Mars' John can get her away from this dreadful place. Miss Ida'd never forgive me; but she needn't know nothin' about my tellin'!"

"Miss Jenny" heard her with indignant astonishment; but giving her no encouragement to proceed with her tale, or to hope for an amelioration of her mistress' condition, merely said she was sorry she could do nothing for her; and advised her to imitate Ida's prudence and silence; counsel which confirmed Rachel's skepticism in "white folks' friendship." Ida thought Charley kinder than ever, that evening. If he had known the severity of her day's discipline, he could not have been more tender and consolatory. His inattention to Josephine, who also had visitors, troubled her somewhat; but she had the comforting reflection that she was not to blame for it. The day of the ball, he took her and Mrs. Dana to ride. They called at the residence of a country friend, to whose green-house Charley had theentrée; and he improved his privilege by culling a bouquet of Camelias, tea-roses and orange blossoms "for the belle of the ball;" he told his hostess. When they were again in the carriage, he handed them to Ida, with a laugh. "I have no idea of going to the ball, and you would be the belle, if you were to attend; so there was no fibbing, was there?" The flowers were beautiful, and at this season, very rare; and Ida bore them home carefully, and put them in water in her room. They were sweet company; she could only watch, and pet, and talk to them the rest of the day.

Mr. Read was uncommonly jocose at supper time.

"Make yourself pretty, Josey," said he, lighting his lamp; "you don't have me to escort you every evening."

Josephine looked after him with a sneer. "A mighty honor! If he had a spark of generosity or politeness, he would have bought me a bouquet, if they do ask such enormous prices. I have a good mind not to go, I shall feel so mean without one."

Ida said she regretted it; and she did feel for her. She knew, that to party-goers, these little things are no trifles; she hadseen a girl dull or sulky for an entire evening, because of a deficiency of this sort.

"I wish I could help her," she was saying to herself, as she returned to her apartment. The aroma that stole upon her senses said, "you can." She was no heroine, for she stood over her flowers, and doubted and pondered for a good half hour, before her wavering mind rested upon its pivot; and then a tear bedewed a Camelia's spotless bosom, as she emptied the vase, and saying aloud, "If thine enemy thirst, give him drink," set about arranging them anew. Her Christmas rose-tree was hanging with buds, which, on the morrow, would be blossoms, but she despoiled it of its nodding pearls; and adding geraniums and citronaloes, completed as tasteful a bouquet, as ever bloomed under the fingers of a fashionable florist.

She gave it to Josephine, when she came into the parlor to survey her full-length figure in the tall glass.

"Oh! how lovely!" she exclaimed involuntarily; then recovering herself, said coldly, "They are pretty;" and returned them.

"They are for you," said Ida.

"Who sent them?"

"They were presented to me; and as their beauty is wasted upon the 'desert air' of my chamber, I shall be obliged to you to display them."

Josephine would have rejected the generous offer, if there had been the remotest chance of another; but it was late, and she could not go bouquetless.

"Who gave them to you?" she asked.

Ida paused, then replied, "Mr. Dana."

"He will know them; I had rather go without any."

"No danger of that! he will not be there." Her patience was nearly spent. Josephine accepted the gift with a very bad grace; she was awkward and embarrassed, and what appears more improbable, a little ashamed. Mr. Read was attired with scrupulous neatness and elegance, and looked ten years younger than he really was. Ida "presumed" to tell him so, and was recompensed by a bland smile. She had done her duty, perhaps more, and she did not repent of her self-denial; but something of the desolate feeling of "lang-syne" fell upon her, asshe was left, sole tenant of the parlor and the house. Weak and weary, she sighed for human society and affection. It was a darkened hour; clouded by self-doubtings, mournful memories and forebodings. The piano was open; she had not touched it since her arrival at home; but she went to it now; only plaintive tunes came to her fingers; she played fitfully, as her mood disposed her; the music was the voice of her thoughts; and she sang to a rambling, irregular measure—

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