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

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

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

A general cachinnation applauded this felicitous hit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We! how!" was the unanimous exclamation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you like it?" inquired Carry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My name is Ida."

"Miss Ida, or cousin Ida?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You have known this?" asked Carry.

"In all its bitterness!"

"And the writer felt, or thought he felt the force of their meaning, when he penned the lines. Have you ever met with a warm heart besides your own?"

"Yes, one—the home of excellence and affection."

"Then, 'this cold world' has produced three, to whom its biting atmosphere was uncongenial—may there not be more? I look into my bosom, and discover there charity and good-will towards men; why should I deny the existence of like feelings in those who are partakers of the same nature, in all other respects?"

"Fair logic; but let us examine facts. Take an example so frequently cited, as to appear hacknied, yet none the less true to nature. Your wealth, or situation, or influence enables you to benefit those who style themselves your friends. You are courted, beloved, popular. A change in these adventitious circumstances alters everything. With unabated desires for love or distinction, you are a clod of the earth, a cumberer of the ground. The stream of adulation flows in another direction; former acquaintances pass you with averted eyes, or chilling recognitions; you are sought by no new ones. Men do not go to a barren tree, or a dried fountain. You shake your head;—this is not a fancy sketch. Listen to a leaf from my history. Until two years ago I never received a harsh word, or an unloving look. My mother was the benefactress of the poor, for miles around, and I was her almoner. Blessings and smiles hailed me wherever I went. I had no conception of sorrows she could not alleviate; and I remember thinking—foolish child that I was! that her empire of hearts was worth the glory of an Alexander or Napoleon. She died! and where are the fruits of her loving kindness? If her memory lives in another breast than that of her only child, I do not know it!"

There were tears in Carry's eyes, already, and the slight tremor of her speech was grateful music to the orphan's ear.

"You quitted your home, and all who knew her, and came to a strange city, where it was necessary for you to earn love as she had done. I have no doubt, nay, I am sure, that by the creatures of her bounty, her memory is preserved as a holy thing; and that they are ready to extend the affection they had for her, to her child. Here, she was comparatively unknown. To carry out your metaphor of the tree, the graft cut from the parent stock must bear fruit for itself. I know the world is generally selfish, but I am convinced that our reprobation of it often arises from the growth of a similar weakness in ourselves. May it not be that the dearth of love, so painfully felt by you, proceeds in part, from the ignorance of your associates as to the real state of your mind, or from an exacting spirit in yourself! Pardon my freedom; it is meant in kindness."

"I thank you for your candor. The truth, if unpalatable, cannot offend."

"Then, trusting to your forbearance, I will go more into particulars. To curry favor, in school, or elsewhere, is as repugnant to me as to you; but do we sacrifice self-respect, by swaying to the popular voice, when no abandonment of principle is required? or play the hypocrite, in concealing prejudices and humors that conflict with the sentiments of others; in uniting, with apparent willingness, in the common cause? We cannot like—we may help all. I say it in humility—there is one rule by which I do not fear to be judged: 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them.'"

"I understand your allusions. You think my reserve proceeds from pride alone. What if I were to tell you"—and her voice sank, "that haughty as I seem, I would cringe—lie in the dust—to the most inferior of my daily companions, if she would give me love. Believe me, it is this unquenchable thirst—this longing for what is unattainable by me, which has forced me to court its opposite—hate! I will not lay my heart bare to those who would spurn it. It is said, the hind seeks an obscure covert, to die from the wound for which his unhurt comrades would shun him. You cannot know—it would be improper for me to recount my fruitless endeavors to win the coveted blessing, at any price, even the loss of the self-respect you imagine I value so highly. It is enough that experiences, such as I hope may never be yours, have taught me to entrench myself in my fortress of self-confidence, from whence I hurl disdain upon besieging powers. I am thought independent; the world has made me so. No woman is independent from nature or choice."

Carry looked musingly in the fire. "I am not certain," she said, "that I have a right to repeat what was told me, by one who never thought that you would hear it. I do not see, how ever, that it can do harm, and I wish to show you, that I am not ignorant of some of your trials. A friend of mine, whose name I am not at liberty to mention, was in F——'s painting-rooms on the afternoon of your visit. The artist was an acquaintance, and having letters to write, he offered to occupy his desk while Mr. F—— should seek recreation. He was an auditor of Josephine's Read's garbled story of our church-yard adventure; he had heard a true statement from me. Had my name been used, as it would have been if she had known who your companion was, he would have spoken. As it was, his indignation nearly got the better of his prudence. He identified you as the heroine of the tale, by the significant gestures and winks of the ill-mannered party, and commended your equanimity and forbearance."

"He did not add, that his timely warning suppressed the responsive storm?" said Ida.

"Why! did he speak?"

"No. He only looked, but such a look!"

Carry laughed. "He is a strange mortal! But to return to yourself. These exhibitions of depravity and cold-heartedness, are not adapted to raise our estimate of mankind; yet even then, there was one present, who was on the side of right and humanity; who saw no cause for mirth in the sufferings of a child, or the anxieties of two inexperienced girls."

"Dr. Ballard did, it seems," said Ida, the gloomy look returning.

"Did Josephine hear of the affair from him?"

"I suppose so. Who else knew it?"

"True. But is it not more probable that she gave it her own coloring, than that he made a jest of us? We will lean towards mercy in our judgment."

"You are a veritable alchemist," said Ida. "You would ferret out gold, even in the dross of my character."

"Try me!" replied Carry. "But bear in mind, nothing is to be secreted; no hard thoughts or jaundiced investigations. All must be cast into the crucible."

"And tried by what fire?" inquired Ida.

"Love!" said the warm-hearted girl, kneeling beside her, and winding her arms about her waist. "Love me, Ida! and if I prove heartless and deceitful, I will cease to plead for my brothers and sisters."

The glad tears that impearled her bright locks, replied.