"Teach me to gain hearts as you do!" Ida prayed, on the memorable evening of the storm, and Carry answered, blithely, "Love, and live for others!"

To her, natural disposition and practice made the task easy; for her pupil, it was arduous beyond her worst expectation. Her reputation was established; the wall she had erected between herself and her associates, was not to be undermined or scaled in a day. Her overtures of familiarity and service was unskilfully made; her very timidity construed into labored condescension. "It is a hopeless endeavor—they will never care for me!" said she, despondingly—once and again, and Carry still predicted—"Love will win love. Persevere!" The birth and growth of their attachment was remarkable. Dissimilar in mind; made more so in manner, by education and circumstances, there existed from the earliest stage of their friendship, perfect confidence in each other's affection. Carry had an infallible perception of genuine worth, hidden though it might be; and Ida clung drowningly to this last anchor—the sole tie that connected her with her race. Like most deep feelings, its current was noiseless. They were much together;—that was not strange, since their studies were the same. They had separate compartments of one desk; and none marked how often one book was conned by both; brown and fair curls mingling; and hands clasped in mute tenderness. Still less did they dream of the miraculous confluence of the sun-bright stream with the turbid torrent, and the wondrous music of their flow.

They were sitting thus one forenoon, when an assistant teacher drew near, and inquired if there were a vacant seat in their vicinity.

"A new scholar!" buzzed from fifty tongues; and the eyes of our two students strayed with the rest, to the door.

"Miss Pratt, young ladies!" introduced Mr. Purcell.

The girls arose, in conformance with their custom of reception, and bowed to the figure that followed him into the room. She was short and fat—"dumpy," in vulgar parlance; and so homely, as to countenance Ellen Morris' report to another department—"that the farmers in the neighborhood where she was 'riz,' had forwarded a petition, beseeching her to return, their corn having suffered greatly from the depredations of the crows since her departure; a thing unheard of, previously, in that part of the country." Her eyes were small and grey; her nose a ruddy "snub;" her lips curiously puckered up; and her skin might have owed its dappled red to the drippings of the carroty frizette overshadowing it. Her dress was showy and outrÉ; a rainbow silk trebly-flounced; an embroidered lace cape; white kid gloves; a gold cable of startling dimensions; two bracelets of corresponding size, and different patterns; a brooch that matched neither, and out-glittered both; while blue, green, and red stones, with heavy settings, loaded the thick fingers to the knuckles.

Awe of their preceptor in some, good breeding in others, prevented any audible outbreak of amusement; but what school girl on the qui vive for diversion could keep from smiling? Mr. Purcell frowned as his eye travelled from one mirthful face to another, but a twinkle from Ellen Morris' dancing orbs neutralized the effort; and there was a perceptible twitch of his risible muscle as he rapped for "order." Ida and Carry had not escaped the contagion, an indulgence for which they reproached themselves.

"Poor girl!" whispered Carry. "She knows no better. She is to be pitied instead of laughed at." And Ida thought of her loneliness, upon her induction into these strange scenes. "I can lessen her discomfort, and, uninfluenced by prejudice, she will be thankful, perhaps will become fond of me."

Carry read her resolve in her thoughtful survey of the stranger; but while she loved and honoured her for it, her heart misgave her as she looked more attentively at the object of the purposed charity. Her physiognomy was not more irregular than unpleasant in its expression. She had opened a book, to be in the fashion in this as in every thing else, but her regards were wandering around the room in scared yet unblushing curiosity, flustered at being in a crowd, without a doubt as to her ability to cope with the best of them. Before the exercises of the forenoon were concluded, she was summoned to see a visitor, and did not reappear before intermission. Then Ida, having occasion to go into a small room, where bonnets and cloaks were hung, found her standing at the window, crying. She wheeled about sharply on hearing a step; her eyes swelled almost out of sight, and her whole appearance frightful in its disorder.

"What do you want?" she asked, querulously.

"I did not know you were here," said Ida. "What is the matter? Are you sick? Can I help you?"

"No. My pa's gone away!" A fresh burst.

"Gone! where?"

"Gone home! and I don't want to stay in this nasty, mean place. I don't want to go to school no more—nowhar!"

To hint at the obvious propriety of the deprecated measure was a temptation policy bade her resist, and Ida was actually nonplussed in casting about in her mind for appropriate consolation.

"You will like us better than you expect," she said, rather awkwardly; "and your father will come soon to see you again—will he not?"

"Yes; he's comin' next week. He is a representative!" mouthing the word magniloquently.

"A—what?"

"He belongs to the legislater. Lor! didn't you know that?"

"No," replied Ida, humbly; "I am so little conversant with State affairs. You will be glad to have him so near."

"I don't care much about it; I want to go home and stay with ma!" beginning to sob. Neither her unpolished manners, nor her accent, combining, as it did, the most vicious of Virginia provincialisms, with the gutturals of the African; nor her noisy grief, could make Ida forget that she was a home-sick child—weeping for her mother! She too had mourned, and "refused to be comforted, because hers was not." Miss Pratt's sorrow, however, was very garrulous.

"Now, at home," she continued, "I did jest as I pleased; I lay down most all day. Ma said reading was bad for my head; and so 'tis; it makes me as stupid as I don't know what; and ain't no use besides. I can play on the pianny; gentlemen don't care for nothing else when they go to see the ladies. You all don't have no beaux while you're at school, do you?"

Ida smiled at this unlooked for query. "We do not have much leisure for amusements," she rejoined.

"And can't you go to the theatre, and to shows and parties?" asked Miss Pratt, alarmed.

"There are no rules on the subject; but it is thought that a young lady is better fitted to go into society, when her mind and manners are formed by time and study."

"Mine are enough formed, I know," complacently glancing from her attire to Ida's plain merino, and black silk apron. "How awful ugly all the girls dress! Ain't none of 'em rich?"

"I believe so; but the school-girls here dress simply."

"I shan't! My pa's able to give me decent clothes, and I mean to have 'em. I don't like Richmond a single bit. Nobody don't take no more notice of me than if I wan't nobody—no better than other folks."

"You are not acquainted yet. There are some pleasant girls amongst us; and you will love Mr. Purcell."

"Is he strict, much? Does he make you get hard lessons?"

"He is very kind and considerate."

"I despise teachers and books. Thank patience! I am going to turn out after this session. Ma was married at fifteen, and I'm going on seventeen."

"I am quite seventeen, but I am not tired of books. When I leave school, I shall adopt a regular plan of study and reading."

"Good gracious! Why, don't you expect to get married? What are you going to learn so much for? I reckon you're going to teach school."

"No; I study because I like to do it."

"Pshaw! you talk like your teacher was in the room. I don't believe that."

"The school-bell!" interrupted Ida, happy to be released.

Miss Pratt hung back. "I don't want to go where all them girls are. Will Mr. What's-his-name be mad if I stay here?"

"He will probably send for you."

"Then I might's well go now. I don't care—I'm as good as any of 'em."

"What, and who is she?" inquired Carry, when school was out.

"A silly, neglected child," responded her friend. "Shamefully ignorant, when we consider her father's station. He is a member of the legislature."

"Ah! can it be the delegate from A——? I have heard of him. He is a clever politician, and an educated man. I am astonished!"

So were all who made the acquaintance of his daughter. Mr. Pratt had done his best to serve his country and increase his fortune. The rearing of his children was confided to a weak and foolishly fond mother. The only girl was alternately stuffed and dosed, until the modicum of intellectual strength nature might have granted her, was nearly destroyed; the arable soil exhausted by the rank weed growth. It was just after his election to the House of Representatives, that the father made simultaneously two astounding discoveries—that physically, his daughter was no longer a child, and that she was a dunce. He had paid a teacher to superintend her education, and supposed she had done her duty; whereas, the prudent governess, having little more sense than her pupil, and loving her ease fully as well, had enjoyed her sinecure of a situation with no compunctious visitings of conscience. She acted "according to Mrs. Pratt's instructions." It was a thunderbolt to the feminine trio when the Representative introduced a bill of amendment, paid the soi-disant instructress for the work she had not performed, informing her that her services were at an end; and ordered the mother to resign her spoiled child to him, "he would see what could be done towards redeeming the time." He carried his point in the teeth of a windy and watery tempest, and "Miss Celestia Pratt" was duly entered on the roll-book of Mr. Purcell's justly celebrated institution. She soon ceased to complain that she was not noticed. The second day of her attendance she fell in with Ellen Morris and her coterie. By the time the half hour's recess was over, they were enlightened as to her past life, and future aspirations, and supplied with the material of a year's fun-making; while she was reinstated in her self-consequence, and ready to strike hands with them in any scheme they chalked out.

"It is a shame," said Ida, who, with Carry kept aloof, silent spectators. "Cannot she see what they are doing?"

"It will be a severe, but perhaps a salutary lesson," replied Carry.

"But the poor creature will be the butt of the school."

"And of the community," said Carry. "I have reasoned with Ellen;—she is not evil disposed, but would compass sea and land for as rich a joke as this promises to be. My influence can effect nothing."

"What if I warn the girl?" said Ida. "Must she pay the penalty of her parent's fault?"

"My darling," returned Carry, affectionately, "I am learning prudence from you, and I verily believe I have imparted to you some of my inconsiderateness. What hold have you on this Miss Pratt's confidence? Ellen and her clique are as likely to be in the right as yourself. In her estimation they are more entitled to credence. They play upon the string of self—you will utter a distasteful truth. Let her and them alone, except so far as your individual self is concerned. Attract each one to you, and you may be the means of bringing them together."

Ellen Morris burst into the school-room one morning in a gale of excitement.

It was early, and none of the teachers were present, the girls were gathered in knots about the stove and desks.

"Oh girls!" she cried, "I hurried to get here before my angel Celestia. I have the best thing to tell you. You must know she and I were invited, with several others, to take tea at Uncle James' last evening. We had not been there long before aunt said that Mr. Dermott was expected. 'I have it,' thought I. I gave Celestia a nudge, 'Do you hear that?'

"'What?' said she.

"'The great traveller, Mr. Dermott, is to be here presently. Ain't you glad?'

"'Who is he? I never heard of him.'

"'Oh Celestia! and you a representative's daughter! and he invited expressly to meet you—it is well no one overheard you—and you have not composed your conversation either? What will you do? He is one of the famous authors you hear so much of. They will make a statue of him when he dies, like Washington in the capitol, you know.'

"'You don't say so!'

"'Yes, and he has seen the seven wonders of the world, and elephants, and rhinoceros, and polypi, and hippopotami, and Dawalageri, and anthropophagi.'

"'Good gracious!' said she, looking wild, 'You reckon he will speak to me? do tell me something to say!'

"'Could you repeat those names?'

"'That I couldn't, to save my life!'

"'Well,—let me see,—you must be very sober and wise; only saying 'yes' and 'no,' till he gets to talking of books. Then is the time to show off. Literary people never inquire what you remember in a book, if you say you have read it.'

"'Yes,' she struck in, with a grin. "So when he asks me if I've read them he's talking about, I'm a-going to say 'yes'—(you know she is always 'going, going, gone.') 'He ain't a-going to catch me, I'll show him!'

"'Right,' said I; 'and question him about two or three, which you name yourself; that will finish the business.'

"'I don't know none.'

"'Don't you? Then I will write off a short list. Keep the paper in your hand; and when he is fairly under way talking, you steal a sly peep at it.' Oh! it was enrapturing to see how she held on to that slip of paper! poring over it every five minutes before Mr. Dermott's arrival, and once in two minutes afterwards. She would study it for a second, then her lips would move, until the time for another peep; she was getting it by heart, staring at him all the while. By and by he happened to be near her; and said something about the Panorama. She had been on tiptoe for the last hour, lest her trouble should be thrown away; and resolved not to lose this opportunity, she spoke out as loudly as addressing a deaf person—

"'Mr. Dermarck! have you ever read Plutarch-es Liv-es, Homer's Eyelids, Dance's Diving Comedy and Campbell's Gratitude of Wimming?' I wish you could have seen him!"

"O Ellen! Ellen!" chorussed twenty voices; and the crowd rocked in uncontrollable merriment. Carry, and one or two more were grave; and an indignant voice said, "How wickedly heartless!"

There was no mistaking the meaning and emphasis of the interjection. Ellen crimsoned to the roots of her hair. She retorted with a spirit entirely opposite to her usual sportive gaiety.

"One, whose lowest thoughts soar so far above the common herd, as Miss Ross, cannot be expected to understand a piece of harmless pleasantry."

Ida had unluckily employed the oft-quoted words, "the common herd of mankind," in a written composition; and this was not the first time it had been used as an offensive missile.

"One must stoop low indeed, Miss Morris," was the instant rejoinder, "to see harmless pleasantry in a plot for the disgrace of an unoffending school-mate."

"Ida! Ellen!" exclaimed Carry, laying her hand upon Ellen's mouth, and stifling her reply. "For my sake, girls—if not for your own—say no more! Ida! what have you to do with this miserable affair?"

"I have done!" said Ida, bitterly; "Defence of right and truth is better left unattempted here!"

The girls fell back as she crossed to her seat. The sentence sank into every mind; and the expression of each one showed that she appropriated it. Carry's head dropped upon Ellen's shoulder; and sullenly vindictive as was the latter, she was not unmoved by the quiver of the slender frame. Mr. Purcell's entrance put an end to the scene. That was a wretched day to more than one heart. Ida's was well-nigh bursting. It mattered not that her prospects of popularity were, for the present, shipwrecked; that her resolutions of patience and gentleness had broken, like dry straws, at the breeze of passion;—Carry was wounded—perhaps offended—perhaps estranged! "Still, what have I done?" whispered pride, "spoken truth, and defended the absent!" But conscience answered—"Anger, not justice was the prompter," and again, every feeling merged in one—"What will Carry think?" She did not offer her book as usual—did not meet her eye. She would have read no resentment there; the pale, sad face told of suffering, with no admixture of baser motives. The intermission was dull. Miss Celestia's extravagant description of "the party," and "the gentlemen" she "was interduced to," hardly excited a smile. A nameless depression was upon all. Ellen, their ringleader in mischief, and Carry, the willing participant in their innocent pleasures, were wanting from their band. They remained at their desks, seemingly engaged in study, until almost school-time, when Carry went around to the other, whispered a word; and they left the apartment together. They returned arm in arm, as Ida, who had gone home in recess, more to be quieted and refreshed by the cool air, than for luncheon,—entered from the street. She remarked their affectionate air, and happier faces with goading envy. "Ellen is worth conciliating. It would be dangerous to break with her. There can be no hesitancy, with the fair words of the crowd in one scale—and Ida Ross, unknown and unbeloved, in the other. Be it so!" But awakened affection had had a taste of its proper nutriment, and was not to be famished into silence. The afternoon wore heavily away in the unspoken anguish of love and pride and suspicion. Careless of remarks or conjectures, she declined dinner, and retired at once to her chamber, when she reached home. It might have been one hour;—it might have been three, that she had knelt or laid upon the floor, her head upon a stool, before the mourner for the dead bird;—weeping and thinking, and seeming to grow a year older with each flood of grief; when there came a tap at the door. "Josephine!" was the first thought—to spring to the mirror, brush the tumbled hair, and dash rosewater over the discolored cheeks, the work of the next minute; then she said sleepily—"Who is there?"

"It is I—Carry!"

The bolt was withdrawn, and the intruder lay, sobbing upon her breast.

"Oh, Ida! how could you be angry with me?"

Ida struggled with the answering drops, but they would come.

"I thought you had thrown me off, Carry!"

"You could not—after my note."

"Your note!"

"I slipped it into your French Grammar, as it lay open before your eyes; and you shut the book and put it aside,—I supposed to read it at your leisure."

"I did not see it."

She went to her satchel, and brought forth the Grammar. "There it is!" said Carry, as a folded paper fell from within it. "Do not read it. I will tell you its contents. I asked your forgiveness for interrupting you so rudely this morning; but these public disputes lead to so much evil. Ellen was wrong; she has said so to me; and is ready to be your friend, if you consent. Her conduct was blameably thoughtless; and her quick temper could not submit to a rebuke so openly administered. I was abrupt, but it was not because I was angry with, or did not love you. Ellen's taunt was extremely provoking"—

"Stop! stop! Carry! It is I, who should sue for pardon, and excuse, if I can, my unbecoming heat, and after doubts of your friendship. I cannot tell you what a fearful warfare has waged within me;—how much incensed I was to see you and Ellen come in so lovingly, at noon;—how Ishmael-like I felt;—every man's hand against me, and mine against the universe, and Him who made it," she added, with an intonation of awe. "Can you love me after hearing this, Carry?"

"Always—always!"

Ellen was amazed, that afternoon, on being summoned to receive visitors, to find in them her two class-mates, and more astounded to hear from her antagonist of the morning, a frank and graceful apology for her hasty strictures upon her conduct and words. Ellen was, as she phrased it, "great upon high-flown speeches; but this was an extraordinary occasion, and demanded a deviation from ordinary rules; so I condescended, for once, to make use of simple language."

If simple, it was satisfactory, and they parted most amicably. It was past sunset, when the friends arrived at Mr. Read's door. Ida stood upon the steps, watching Carry, as she tripped away into the dusk. Others would have seen only a pretty girl, with a smile like May sunshine;—to the fond eyes that followed her, she was an angel of love, upon whom nothing of evil could gaze without adoration and contrition;—and now the light of a new blessing beaming upon her brow—the blessing of the peace-maker!