Miss Carleton acknowledged the appearance of her desk-mate on the succeeding morning, by an inclination of the head and a smile; and nothing more passed between them until the hour for Italian. She paused, seeing that Ida retained her seat. "Are you not going in?" she ventured to ask.

"No."

There was a moment of hesitation, and she spoke again. "I would not appear to dictate, but do you not fear Mr. Purcell may construe your non-attendance into disrespect to himself?"

"I fear nothing," was upon Ida's tongue, but her better nature would not allow her to return rudeness for what, suspicion could torture into nothing but disinterested kindness. With a gleam of her former frankness she looked up at her interlocutor, "You do not know as much as I do, or you would understand the inutility of my presence at the trial which comes off this morning. I would avoid a repetition of yesterday's scene. One will suffice for a life-time."

"You met then with insult and injustice. To-day, Mr. Purcell will shield you from both. As a gentleman, and a conscientious judge, he cannot but see that Alboni's attack was uncalled for, and decide against him."

"No man is conscientious when his conscience militates against his purse and popularity."

Miss Carleton seemed shocked, and Ida added, hastily, "Our views upon this, as upon most subjects, are very different, I fancy; therefore, discussion is worse than useless. In this instance, my determination is taken;" and she opened her book.

"I will not attempt to shake it," replied her companion. "But suffer me to hope for a longer conversation at some future time, upon these topics, concerning which you think we differ. There may be some points of agreement, and I, for one, am open to conviction."

Again was Ida thrown off her guard, and the smile that answered irradiated her face like a sudden sunbeam. But when her class-mate had gone, she thought,—"Weak fool! the reserve I have striven for two years to establish, melted by a soft speech of a school-girl. She is one of the would-be 'popular' sort, and would worm herself into confidence by an affectation of sympathy and sweetness."

"Miss Ross," said Mr. Purcell, a while later, coming up to her desk, "you will do me the favor to meet me in my study at two o'clock."

At the time designated, she walked with a stately tread through the long school-room, unabashed by the hundred curious eyes bent upon her; for a summons to "the study" was an event of rare occurrence, and had been heretofore the harbinger of some important era in the annals of school-dom. Ida was prepared for every thing partiality could dictate, and tyranny execute; but Mr. Purcell was alone, and his demeanor anything but menacing. "He thinks to cajole me," whispered the fell demon Distrust, and her heart changed to steel.

"Miss Ida," began the principal, mildly, "this is your third session in this institution, and I can sincerely declare that during that time, your propriety of behaviour, and diligence in study have not been surpassed. I have never had a young lady under my care, whose improvement was more rapid—of whose attainments I was more proud; but I regret to say, never one whose confidence I failed so signally to gain. A teacher's task, my dear Miss Ross, is at best an arduous one, but if he receive no recompense for his toil in the affection of those for whom he labors, his life is indeed one of cheerless drudgery. You appear to regard me as a mere machine. For a time I attributed your reserve to diffidence, and trusted that time and my efforts would dissipate it. On the contrary, the distance between us has increased. You hold yourself aloof from your school-mates, repelling every offered familiarity, yet I have seen you weep after such an act. Your cheek glows with enthusiasm when your favorite studies engage your mind, and you relapse into frigid hauteur when recalled to the actual world around you. You have feeling as well as intellect—you are acting a part assumed from some unaccountable fancy; or, I would rather believe, put upon you by necessity. The evidence of your want of reliance in my friendship which you have given me to-day, has determined me to speak candidly with you. I would not wrest a confession from you which you might afterwards repent, but I entreat you to look upon me as a friend who has a paternal love for each member of his numerous family, who desires to see you happy, and asks—not your confidence, but that you will let him serve you."

Ida sat like a statue. He resumed in a tone of disappointment—

"As to the unjustifiable charge brought by Signor Alboni—I am aware how galling is even the appearance of humiliation upon so proud a spirit. I have investigated the matter carefully. The testimony of your friend, Miss Carleton, would of itself have been sufficient to exonerate you. It was confirmed by the voice of the class, and the inevitable consequence is, that Signor Alboni no longer has a place in my school. I can safely promise that the teacher I have selected in his stead, will oppose no impediment to your progress."

Shame for her unjust accusations, and remorseful gratitude pierced Ida's bosom. Greatly agitated, she approached her instructor, when Mr. Read walked in;—a cynical iceberg! Every generous emotion—all softness vanished on the instant. His inquiring glance encountered one as freezing. "I will not detain you longer, Mr. Purcell," she said, as if concluding a business arrangement. "As nearly as I can understand, your object in sending for me was to secure me as a pupil of the new language-master. Having undertaken the study of the Italian, I prefer going through with the course. Mr. Read will settle the terms. Good afternoon, gentlemen;" and with the mien of a duchess she left them.

Mr. Read "had been delayed by pressing business. Miss Ross requested him to see Signor Alboni—was sorry he was late—presumed all was right, etc.," and walked out again. Mr. Purcell was too much hurt, and too indignant at his pupil's conduct, to care whether he stayed or not.

The misguided girl had alienated a true friend, and she knew it—felt it in her heart's core. In the solitude of her chamber she wept bitter tears: "I have cast away the gem for which I would sell my soul! While I thirsted for the waters of affection, I struck down the hand that held them to my lip. It is my fate—I was not born to be loved—I hate myself—why should I inspire others with a different feeling?"

In vain she tried to reason herself into a belief of Mr. Purcell's insincerity. Truth speaks with a convincing tongue, and she knew that the imputation of interested motives she had hurled at him in the unfortunate revulsion of feeling, was unfounded.

In intermission next day, a note was laid upon Ida's desk, inscribed in towering capitals, to "Misses Ross and Carleton;" It ran thus:—

"At a large and enthusiastic meeting of the Italian class of Mr. Purcell's Young Ladies' Female Seminary, convened on yesterday afternoon, the succeeding resolutions were proposed, and carried unanimously:

"Resolved, That whereas, Miss Ida Ross and Miss Caroline Carleton, members of the aforesaid class, have, by their spirited independence delivered us from an oppression as grinding as that under which our Revolutionary forefathers groaned, a vote of thanks shall be tendered them in the name of their compatriots. And—

"Resolved, Moreover, that we bind ourselves to assist them by our united suffrages in the attainment of any honor for which they shall hereafter be candidates, whether the dunce-block or the gold medal.

Anna Talbot, Chairman.
Ellen Morris, Secretary.

The event which had elicited this public manifestation, was to Ida, connected with too much that was unpleasant, to allow her to smile at the pompous communication. She passed it gravely to her neighbor. She laughed at the ludicrous repetition of feminist in the second line, and at the conclusion, bounded upon the platform where stood Mr. Purcell's desk, and commenced a flourishing harangue "for herself and colleague," expressing their gratitude at the flattering tribute from their fellow-laborers, and pledging themselves to uphold forever their honor and lawful privileges. "In the language of your eloquent resolution, my sisters, we form a 'Young Ladies' Female Seminary'—womanfully will we battle for woman's rights."

"Hush-h-h!" and Mr. Purcell was discovered standing behind the crowd. He stood aside to let the blushing orator return to her seat, remarking in an under-tone as she passed, "I must take care to enlist such talents in my service—I shall be undone if they are directed against me."

"Oh Carry! what did he say?" whispered Fanny Porter.

"Nothing very dreadful," she returned, laughingly. Ida looked on in surprise, Josephine with scorn; but to the majority, this little episode in their monotonous life was a diverting entertainment.

"Give me a girl who is not too proud to relish a joke," said Ellen Morris. "Ida Ross is above such buffoonery. She would not have demeaned her dignity before the school."

"But Carry spoke for her too," said Emma Glenn, a meek, charitable creature: "Perhaps modesty, not pride, kept her silent."

"Fiddlesticks!" was the school-girlish rejoinder.

Ida had missed a chance for making herself popular. The girls were moved to admiration by her manner of resenting Alboni's rudeness, and their joy at getting rid of him, assumed the shape of gratitude to their champion. She was for the hour a heroine, and might have retained her stand, but for her cool treatment of their advances. She saw, without understanding the reason of the change, that there was now a mingling of dislike in their neglect; and as she sank in their esteem, Carry mounted. Mr. Purcell never noticed her out of the recitation room—Mr. Read was more lofty—Josephine more contemptuous than ever. Inmates of one house—occupying adjacent chambers—sitting at the same board at home, and within speaking distance at school, the two girls had not one feeling in common—a spark of affection one for the other. Open ruptures were infrequent now, although they were innumerable during the first months of their companionship. They appeared together in public—this Mr. Read enjoined "It was due to his reputation, people should not say that his daughter's privileges exceeded his ward's." Further than this he did not interfere. He saw them only at meal-times, and in the evening; then Josephine presided over the tea-tray with skill and grace, and amused him, if he wished it, by reading, singing or talking. Ida did as she pleased. There were no requirements, no privations. In the eyes of the world her situation was unexceptionable. They knew nothing of the covert sneers which smiled down any tendency to what the torpid minds of the father and daughter considered undue enthusiasm; their sarcastic notice of her "singularities," their studied variance with her views;—but to her, bondage and cruelty would have been more tolerable. Yet this mocking surveillance—this certainty of ridicule, could not always check the earnest expression of a grasping intellect and ardent temperament; and there were not a few who frequented the house, who preferred the piquancy of her conversation, when they could draw her out of the snow-caverns of her reserve, to the trite common-places and artificial spirits of Miss Read.

Among these was Mr. Dermott, an Irish gentleman of considerable scientific renown, and a traveller of some note; hard upon forty years of age, but enjoying life with the zest of twenty. Ida's intelligent countenance had pleased him at their introduction, and having letters to Mr. Read, he embraced every opportunity to improve the acquaintance.

"I shall not go to school to-day," said Josephine, one morning, "father expects Mr. Dermott and several other gentlemen to dine with him, and I cannot be spared. He says you must come home in time for dinner."

"As school breaks up at three, and you will not dine before five, there was no need to issue the command;" said Ida, irritated at her arrogant tone.

"Very well, I have delivered the message."

Mr. Read was dissatisfied that his ward did not enter the drawing-room until dinner was announced. "It did not look well,"—and her nonchalant air and slight recognition of the party, did not "speak well for his bringing up." But the current veered before meal was over. The fowls were under-done, and the potatoes soaked. His glance of displeasure at his daughter was received with such imperturbability, that he chafed at the impossibility of moving her, and his desire to render somebody uncomfortable. The latter wish was not left ungratified. One after another felt the influence of his lowering brow, and imitated his silence, until Mr. Dermott and Ida were the only ones who maintained a connected conversation. He talked fluently with the humor peculiar to his countrymen, and had succeeded in interesting his listener. She had naturally a happy laugh, which in earlier years rung out in merry music; and as the unusual sound startled him from time to time, Mr. Read took it as a personal affront. Could not she see that he was out of temper? He had punished the rest for the cook's misdeeds, how dare she, while they sat 'neath the thunder cloud of his magnificent wrath, sport in the sunshine? It was audacious bravado. She should rue it ere long. Josephine readily obeyed his signal to leave the table, so soon as it could be done with a semblance of propriety. "I will hear the rest, by and by," said Ida to Mr. Dermott, "au revoir." Neither of the girls spoke after quitting the dining-room. Josephine lay upon a lounge, with half-closed lids, apparently drowsy or fatigued, in reality, wakeful and watching. Ida walked back and forth, humming an Irish air—pleased and thoughtful. Then taking from the book-case a volume of "Travels," she employed herself in looking it over.

"See!" said she, at Mr. Dermott's reappearance, "it is as I thought. This author's account varies, in some respects, from yours; and at the peril of my place in your good graces, I must declare my prejudices to be with him. A spot so celebrated, so sacred in its associations, cannot be as uninteresting as you would have me to think. Come, confess, that the jolting camel and surly guide were accessories to your discontent."

Josephine lost the answer, and much that followed. She was joined by young Pemberton, a fop of the first water, with sense enough to make him uneasy in the society of the gifted, and meanness to rejoice in their discomfiture and misfortune. For the rest, he was weak and hot-headed, a compound of conceit and malice. Time was when he admired Ida. He had an indefinite notion that a clever wife would reflect lustre upon him; and a very decided appreciation of her more shining and substantial charms.

Her repulse was a mortal offence: small minds never forget, much less pardon a rebuke to their vanity, and he inly swore revenge. But how to get it? She rose superior to his witless sarcasms, and more pointed slights; reversing the arrows towards himself, and his mortification heated into hatred. Josephine was aware of this feeling, and its cause; and while despising, in a man, a weakness to which she was herself a prey, foreseeing that he might prove a convenient tool, she attached him to her by suasives and flatteries.

"It is a positive relief to talk to you, Miss Josephine," he yawned, "I am surfeited with literature and foreigners. These travelled follows are outrageous bores, with their bushy moustachios and outlandish lingo. How the ladies can fawn upon them as they do, I cannot comprehend."

"Do not condemn us all for the failings of a part. There are those who prefer pure gold to gilded trash."

"For your sake, I will make some exceptions," with a "killing" look. "But what do you imagine to be the object of that flirtation? No young lady of prudence or proper self-respect, would encourage so boldly the attentions of a stranger. Supposing him to be what he represents, (a thing by no means certain,) she cannot intend to marry him—a man old enough to be her father!"

"But, 'unison of tastes,' 'concord of souls,' etc., will go far towards reconciling her to the disparity of years," observed Josephine, ironically; not sorry to strike upon this tender point. He tried to laugh, but with indifferent success.

Ida's voice reached them, and they stopped to listen.

"I am afraid my conceptions of Eastern life and scenery are more poetical than correct. I picture landscapes sleeping in warm, rich, 'Syrian sunshine,' 'sandal groves and bowers of spice,'

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—

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—

and not deigning a second glance at the questioner, he continued his account of a visit he had paid to Moore. The object of 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 from me."

"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. I am not in the habit of playing spy and informer."

"Then I shall repeat it. I am 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 that I am 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 had expressed 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 withdrawing now?"

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, she thinks 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, "Et mon coeur!"

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 thought but 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 its painted show; it is sweet to bid adieu to its frivolities, for the hope of another and a "better," but

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. I love the 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, good creatures—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 on that! 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!"

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 brute strength, 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, another in transitu for 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-dozen scampered 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,—I am."