After breakfast, Mr. Wyman informed Miss Vernon and Dawn that he should go away that day on business, and be absent perhaps two weeks.

“I have a book which I would like you to take to Miss Evans for me to-day,” he said, addressing Miss Vernon.

“The lady who called here soon after I came?”

“The same.”

“I like her much, and should be pleased to see her again.”

“I am glad you do. She is my ideal of a true woman, and one whom every young, earnest soul ought to know. You will go to-day?”

“Certainly; I am anxious to see her in her own home.”

“She is queen of her domain, and entertains her friends in a most lady-like manner; but I must bid you both good-bye, and be off. Be happy, Miss Vernon, Florence, and let me find you full of good things to tell of yourself and Dawn, on my return. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, papa,” rang out on the sweet summer air till he was out of sight, then the child's lid trembled, the lips quivered, and she laid her head on the bosom of her friend and teacher, and gave vent to the grief which ever wrung her at parting with her kind parent.

“I am glad you did not let your father see those tears. You are getting quite brave, Dawn.”

“I feel so bad when he goes. Shall I ever be strong like you, and look calm after these partings? Perhaps you don't love papa; but every body does that knows him-you do, don't you?”

“Very much; but we will go to our lessons, now, dear.”

“Can I bring my book into the hall, to-day? I like to stay where I saw him last.”

“Certainly; and we will have a review to-day and see how well you remember your lessons. We shall have no interruptions this morning, and after dinner we will go together to see Miss Evans.”

An hour passed, and the lessons were but half through, when a ring at the door caused them both to start, and they left the hall.

Aunt Susan answered the call, and ushered the visitors into the family sitting-room.

“Some ladies have called to see you, Miss Vernon,” she said, thrusting her head into the doorway of the room where teacher and pupil sat close together with clasped hands, as though some invading force was about to wrest their lives apart.

“In a moment, Aunty, I will see them,” and a strange shudder shook her frame.

“Where shall I go while they stay?” asked Dawn.

“Anywhere; only not far from home, as we intend to have an early dinner.”

“Then I will stay here, and look over papa's folio of drawings.”

Miss Vernon went to her room to see that her hair and dress were all right, and then slowly descended the stairs to the sitting-room. Her hand trembled violently as she turned the knob, and she almost resolved to go back to her room. “I am growing so sensitive of late,” she said to herself, “but this will never do, I must go in,” and she opened the door.

Three ladies hastily rose and bowed very formally, as she entered.

The tallest and most stylish of the three blandly inquired for her health, and after a few commonplace remarks, announced the object of their visit.

“We have come to you, Miss Vernon, to-day, as friends of our sex, to inform you of, as you may not fully comprehend, the character of the man whom you are serving.”

Miss Vernon coolly signified her attention.

“We deemed it our duty to do so, being married women,” broke in a little squeaky voice, belonging to the most demure-looking one of the party.

“Yes, we all decided, after long deliberation,” added the third, “that no young woman who cared for her reputation, would tarry a day longer under this roof. This visit of ours is an act of the purest kindness, and we trust you will receive it as such, and in a kind spirit.”

“Yes,” resumed the first speaker, “it is no pleasant duty, and one we have long delayed performing, but we could not bear to see youth and innocence betrayed.”

Miss Vernon at first seemed stunned. She knew not what to say, so many emotions filled her. She tried to speak, but her tongue lost its power, and all was silent. She made one more effort, and voice and courage returned, enabling her to address her “friends.”

“Will you inform me, ladies, what grounds you have for your accusations against Mr. Wyman?”

“I beg pardon, Miss, we who have known him longer than yourself, of course know both sides of his character; indeed he has no reputation in B—, as all know.”

She started involuntarily. What passed through her mind at that moment none can tell, but all can form some idea of the wild tremor of doubt which was gaining strength under their vile calumny and falsehood.

They saw their vantage ground, and followed close with such invectives as women only know how to hurl against whomsoever they assail.

“Strangers,” she could not call them ladies, “I can only speak out of my own experience of this person who a few months ago was unknown to me. He has ever treated me with all delicacy and respect. I have ever found him to be a gentleman. I cannot, will not, believe your assertions,” she said with emphasis, a sudden strength coming over her.

“If you do not believe us, then seek one proof of his wrong dealing, which you can find any day, at a small cottage near the uplands, on the road to L—. 'Tis only a mile from here, Miss, and we would advise you to acquaint yourself with the fact. Take our good advice and leave this house. That is all we can say to you. Of course, if you remain here, you will not be admitted into respectable society.”

“I will not leave his house while he remains the friend and brother he is to me now.”

“No virtuous woman will permit you, then, to enter her house; remember this, Miss Vernon,” and the tall lady assumed an attitude of offended dignity.

“I see,” she continued, “our visit has done but little save to arouse you. It may be at some future day, you will thank us for our advice to you this morning. We must go now. Good day, Miss.”

“Good morning,” replied Miss Vernon, rising and accompanying them to the door, scarce able to repel the strong tide of grief, or bear up under the weight of sadness that was bearing down her soul.

“My brief, happy days so soon, O, how soon, gone by, and over,” she said, after she had closed the door; and she sank on her knees and prayed as only those have prayed before, in like trouble.

She knew not how long she knelt there, but she was roused by Dawn's sweet voice, which was always music to her soul, saying, “Please, may I come, Miss Vernon?”

She rose and held out her arms to receive the little one, who stood hesitatingly on the threshold of the library, then pressing the dear child to her heart, found a sweet sense of relief in doing so.

“I know what makes you feel so, Miss Vernon.”

“What, Dawn, tell me all you feel,” and she sank upon a seat and rested her face on her hand.

“I was looking over the drawings, and feeling very happy, when the room grew dark and cold, so cold I was frightened. Then I heard something say, 'Fear not, Dawn,' and I laid my head down upon the couch, and saw you standing in a damp, cold valley, on either side of which were beautiful green mountains, whose tops overlooked all the towns around. They were so steep that no one could climb them. While you stood there, a great cloud came directly over your head. It was full of rain, and it burst and flooded the whole valley. I feared you would be drowned; but you rose with the water, instead of its going over you, and when the tide was as high as the mountain, you stepped to its highest point, on the beautiful green grass, and sat down. Slowly the waters went down and left you on the mountain-top, where you could never have gone without the flood. Then I looked up, and the room was all full of sunshine just as it was before. I felt cold, and I heard the women go, and then-”

“Then what, Dawn?”

“Then I came to you. The cloud is over you now, but the high green mountain is more lovely than the valley, and overlooks all the pleasant vales and hills around. Do you care if the clouds burst now, Miss Vernon?”

“No, child, I will stand firm and sure while the rain descends. O, Dawn, so justly named, come and soothe my brow, for it aches so hard.”

The child passed her soft, white hands over the forehead of Miss Vernon, and the throbbing pain passed away under her magic touch.

The bell rang for dinner long before they were ready for the summons, but they soon took their places at the table, yet with little appetite for food.

“A poor compliment you pay my dinner,” said Aunt Susan, as she came to remove the dishes, and prepare for dessert. “I suppose you are both lonely without Mr. Wyman. I, too, miss his pleasant face and smile to-day.”

How Miss Vernon wished she had not spoken his name just then.

The form of dinner over, Miss Vernon and Dawn dressed themselves for their walk, knowing that they must start in good season, as it was a long way to the house, and they would need to rest a little before their return.

“I almost question, Dawn, if I should go to Miss Evans while this cloud is over me,” remarked Miss Vernon, feeling as though she was seeking counsel from one her superior in wisdom, rather than addressing a mere child.

“Why, Miss Evans is just what you need to-day. She is as calm as the lovely lake on which we sailed last week.”

“Well, I need her to-day; but should I carry my state to her?”

“Why, she is like a great stream that carries all lesser streams to the ocean of truth,” said Dawn, in a voice not her own, and so deep and thrilling that it made her teacher start and gaze with new wonder upon the child.

“Then we will go this very minute, Dawn; and through the pleasant fields, that we may avoid the dusty road.”