"I'm very lonely now, Carry! and weary, and wakeful and home-sick. You and your home have spoiled me; my heart has been enlarged, only to aggravate the old empty feeling; you have disabled me for the life I must lead here. 'Discouraged already!' I hear you say. 'Did you not promise to be good and patient?' I am not like you, I cannot love, unless I am beloved; and had I your warm, open heart, it would be but attempting to heat Nova Zembla with a foot-stove. Hear, before you reproach. Our journey was pleasant. The children behaved À merveille; your sister was—as she always is—tender and motherly, (you know what that last means from me!) and the conduct of our gallant outriders was above praise. Leaving Mrs. Dana at her door, Lynn and Charley escorted me up-town. With their 'good nights,' and promises to see me again soon, connection with Poplar-grove was severed. My former self—I told you how it would be!—was waiting for me inside the hall-door. I was as little changed in the eyes of Mr. Read and his daughter, as they were in mine. The first-named was upon his etiquette stilts; and Josephine's fingers, as I touched them, were as limp and warm as the digits of a frozen frog. (Vide Charley.) I remembered you and my promise, and made a tremendous effort. 'You are looking so well, that I will not inquire whether your trip was as delightful as you anticipated;' to the daughter.

"'We spent our time agreeably;' dryly.

"'Were the waters of Saratoga beneficial to you, sir?' to the father.

"'My health required no improvement;' stiffly, and with a smack of offended dignity. But this is wrong, Carry! The air of this house must warp my sense of right. While under their roof, I should not ridicule them. There was pleasure in the sadness of last night—last night! it seems a century since! There is no bright thread in the sombre web I am weaving now! I look forward with a sinking spirit. This winter will bring me trials which you may not appreciate. Josephine and myself will ever remain antagonistic;—not that I am quarrelsome; I detest strife. I am sick of this eternal sparring and heartburning; but I am no dissembler; and I foresee many contests; perhaps as many defeats, for cool audacity is more than a match for hot blood like mine. Our characters will come into play upon a wider stage than heretofore, and should we close in combat there, the struggle will be fearful. I am willing,—thanks to you!—to sacrifice prejudice,—not principle or self-respect. Three long, dreary months before I can hope to see you! I fear to think how wicked I may become in that time. Richmond is, to me, a Sahara, whose single fountain of sweet waters springs up within your sister's home. Those, who, within a few months, were unknown, are nearer than acquaintances of years' standing. Poor Rachel stands by, waiting to undress me, her face as long as mine. 'Ah! Miss Ida! this ain't Dr. Carleton's!' She does not realise how painfully conscious I am of that fact. I can hardly say why I have written this incoherent note; except, that I am dispirited, and thirst to talk to you. Forgive my unhappy egotism! I cannot ask you to respond to emotions which never swell your gentle bosom. To your best of fathers, present my warmest regards. I owe him a debt I cannot repay. And to him, dear Carry, whose image blends with yours, in my dreams of the future; the only man I know, to whom I could willingly resign you, give a sister's love. The strongest proof of my affection is, that I am not jealous. Good night! and a blessing, my dearest! If your rest will be the sweeter for knowing that to another, than him, you make life lovely, believe it!

As ever, yours,
Ida."

"I saw Mr. Lacy upon the street, to-day," remarked Mr. Read, the next evening at supper.

"Ah!" said Josephine, delightedly. "Did you speak with him?"

"Yes; he stopped me to apologise for having delayed calling until this time. He is studying law with Mr. L., and has little leisure for visiting—so he says."

"Did you inquire after his sister's health?"

"No. You had better do so, if he calls this evening. He asked whether you would be at home."

Josephine coloured with pleasure; and Ida was curious to see one who had inspired them with such respect and admiration; for through Mr. Read's assumed carelessness, it was easy to discover that he was flattered by the promised visit. She gathered from their conversation that they had met Mr. Lacy at the Springs, whither he had gone with an invalid sister. As Virginians, they attached themselves to the Read party,—"the party of the season," so Josephine unblushingly asserted.

Too proud to go into the drawing-room, without an invitation, Ida went to her chamber, to spend the hours between supper and bed-time, in reading.

"Miss Josephine must 'spect her beau; she's mightily fined off," commented Rachel, when she came up from her meal. "I said so! that's the door-bell I Ain't you going down, Miss Ida?"

"No;"—not withdrawing her eyes from her book.

"You ain't a school-girl now, Miss Ida," Rachel remonstrated.

"Well—and if I am not?"

"Why, young ladies ought to see company. I can't bear for you to be hiding up here, just like you was an ediot or performed; and Miss Josephine, who ain't nigh so pretty, nor good, for that matter, is stealing all the beaux."

"In other words, my good Rachel, you want me to get married."

"Yes ma'am," said Rachel boldly; "If you come across any body to suit you, I'd a heap rather you'd be his wife, than to stay here to be pecked at and worried."

"I am not easily worried; I am my own mistress, and restrained by no one."

"Your own mistis', Miss Ida! Don't I see you sittin' at table, and in the parlor, never opening your mouth to say nothin'; and ain't you cooped up here in this chamber, because Miss Josephine ain't got politeness enough to ask you down? and after they've been making as much of you at Dr. Carleton's as if you had been the Queen of Sheby! Miss Carry is a lady worth talking about, and so is Miss Jenny—none of your turned up nose, poor white folksy sort. I wish you could get into the fam'ly," she added, slyly.

Ida read on in silence.

"The bell agin!" muttered Rachel, fretfully. "I don't know what they're coming for. If they knowed as much as we servants, they'd as soon jam their fingers into a steel-trap. What do you want?" she said, snappishly to the footman who knocked at the door.

"Two gentlemen to see Miss Ross—Mr. Dana and Mr. Holmes."

"I'll tell her;" she returned, greatly mollified. "Now, Miss Ida, don't scare them off with no solemn looks and talk. Do just like you did at Miss Carry's; and 'bove all things, don't let Miss Josephine cut you out!"

We trust to the reader's good-nature to excuse the unfair use which Rachel made of the back parlor window. The affectionate curiosity that prompted her to "peep at Miss Ida, as she made her manners," was gratified by seeing her receive her visitors with as much affability as if Carry, instead of Miss Read, were present. As Rachel surmised, the latter had a beau; and Ida's hasty survey excited a feeling of surprise. He looked and moved the gentleman; but although he arose with the others, and remained standing, Josephine did not introduce him.

Charley's presence of mind prevented embarrassment.

"I beg pardon, Morton; I thought you knew Miss Ross—-Miss Ida, my friend, Mr. Lacy."

This assumption of the duties of host at a first call would have been inexcusable in most cases. Josephine understood it, as it was meant, as a severe rebuke for her negligence or ill-breeding.

The "my friend," too, nettled her. Mr. Lacy had presented the gentlemen to her when they came in, and had spoken to Charley as an old acquaintance, but what right had this stranger to insinuate, that, as his friend, Ida had a title to her "property?" She almost forgave him, however, when she found that, for the present, he was not disposed to push his advantage. He left her to the most delightful tÊte-À-tÊte; turned his back quite upon her, and addressed himself to Ida. She would have pocketed a dozen insults an evening to sit upon the same sofa with Morton Lacy, to read devotion in his speaking eyes, and hear love's music in every cadence of his voice. She was in Elysium—with but one drawback upon her felicity. The group across the room were maliciously unobservant of the tableau—her highborn looking suitor, so lover-like as he bent his proud head to catch the words that melted like honey-dew upon her lips; and herself—with falling lids, as though she feared he might see more in the modest eyes than maiden coyness would have him know—they must notice them, and seeing, Ida must be expiring with envy, and the gentlemen regret, while they envied, that they were too late to compete for the prize. It is not often that the truth is as sweet as the darling fictions we dream to ourselves, and on this occasion, assuredly, the reality would have rendered wormwood palatable in comparison; for the trio of friends were unaffectedly engrossed with each other, and stupidly ignorant of the duett played near them.

"Jenny sent her love to you," said Charley; "she will call shortly. She complains of being tired out with the labor of rectifying the disorders of John's bachelor establishment. She treated us, at tea, to a summary of his domestic economy. Half of the time, he forgot to go to market, and wondered at the want of variety in the fare. The cook was consulted, and hinted at the cause. The ensuing day, he laid in provisions for a week, particularly of such commodities as frugal housewives do not care to have on hand in hot weather. He bought a pair of parlor lamps. 'You wished to surprise me by this handsome present, I suppose,' said Jenny.

"'Why no—I should not have purchased them if the old ones had not been worn out,' said he.

"'Worn out! when we have not had them six months!'

"'Yes!' answered he, positively. 'They would not burn—went out as fast as I lighted them; and worse than that, the new ones have got into the same way. I complained to W——, and he said they were the best he had.'

"'Very odd!' said Jenny, 'unscrewing one of the lamps. Why, Mr. Dana! there is no oil in it! Have they been filled regularly?'

"'Never thought of it once!' exclaimed John, foolishly.

"See how useless marrying makes a man!

"Rather, how comfortless he is without a wife;" responded Ida. "As respects order and management in household matters, I have an idea that you bachelors are not much superior to the Tartars."

"Say on a par with the Hottentots, and you will be nearer the truth;" said Lynn. "Nothing can be well-done that is unnatural. Not one man in a hundred has a talent for housekeeping; some acquire a smattering of the science, and make themselves ridiculous by an offensive display of it. Their wives should rig them in kitchen aprons, set them to rolling out pie-crust, and officiate as their substitutes in the shop, office, or counting-room. There is a loud hue and cry after 'strong-minded women;' who says any thing about weak-minded men?"

"You do not consider that the feebler intellect belongs of necessity, to the feebler body, do you?" asked Charley.

"Not I! Do away with this absurd antipathy to clever women; give them our advantages of education, and they will outshine us mentally, as they do morally. The mind of a woman is a wonderful thing; like the scimetar of Saladin, it cuts through, at a single stroke what our clumsy blades have hacked at in vain. Light, graceful, delicate—it does not lack power because it has beauty."

"It is very pleasant to listen to agreeable speeches, even when we know them to be flattery," said Ida; "I acquit you of insincerity, Mr. Holmes—I perceive that Mr. Dana sides with you—but permit me to say, that I know more of the mental calibre of my sex than either of you. To a certain point, we can rival you successfully—like the hare and tortoise—we run well for a time, and laugh at your plodding; but we have not the taste or ability to bear you company to the goal. As well compare the bounding flight of the lark to the heaven-ward sweep of the eagle. We cannot reason—we are persuaded because we feel that a truth exists—for our lives, we could not tell you why we believe."

"And this is an argument to establish your inferiority!" exclaimed Lynn. "Where is the use of reasoning? I would trust a true woman's intuition in preference to all the systems of logic and induction, the blundering, lumbering brain of man has built. Do not depreciate this angelic faculty, Miss Ida; you hold it in common with higher intelligences."

"Yes!—I doubt if Gabriel bothers his head with syllogisms or logarithms," said Charley. "Two to one—Miss Ida—give up!"

"Men are inconsistent creatures," said she. "They will have it we are their superiors,—exhaust dictionaries and their imaginations to load us with exalted epithets; and behave, as though we were children, to be coaxed with sugar-plums. An angel in theory, the corporeal woman is soundly rated if dinner is late, or a room unswept. We are 'akin to higher intelligences,'—but let one presume to measure lances with a lord of creation in a conflict of minds, and how quickly is she assailed by the hoots of her professed adorers! You will allege that she has stepped out of her sphere. Granted—but according to your belief, she has stooped to your level, and you should be grateful for the grace. Is it so? 'The ladith are divine, tho long ath they don't meddle with thubjects above their comprehenthion;' lisps the dandy whose organs of speech serve to distinguish him from a marmoset;—and wise doctors of law and medicine and divinity, read us homilies upon the modesty, the humility, the submissiveness of the softer sex, and recommend St. Paul to our diligent perusal. We are not cherubim,—nor yet slaves;—not your superiors; and in mind are far from being your equals; but we do hold that we are, or ought to be qualified for your companions; and that your happiness and ours would be enhanced if you would throw sentimental nonsense overboard, and take this practical, every day view of the case."

"Let a lady alone for making her side good!" said Charley. "We'll call it square, and quit—which Lynn will inform you, is a cowardly way of acknowledging ourselves beaten. I never argued with one of you yet, that I was not glad to sneak off in five minutes after the first broadside."

"Their right makes their might;" observed Lynn, gallantly.

"And their invincible obstinacy," returned Charley. "That is not just the word—it is a certain never-give-up-able-ness, vexatiously delightful, which precipitates one into a rage and love, at the same time—he is divided between his disposition to kneel to, and to shoot her!"

"Are you tempted to murder me?" inquired Ida.

"Not at all. It is a peculiarity in the female disposition,—she can't help it—to cry 'scissors' to the last."

"I do not comprehend."

"Did you never hear the 'tailor's wife and scissors?'"

"A story of your own coinage!" asked Lynn.

"No—an authentic narrative. A tailor having amassed a fortune by his trade, cut the shop and removed to the country, to live in dignified leisure. His wife was a bit of a shrew, and apt, as all wives are,—to find out her husband's weak points. One of these was a shame of his former occupation, and she harped upon the jarring string, until the poor wretch was nearly beside himself. Her touch-word, 'scissors,' spoiled his finest bon mots, and embittered his grandest entertainment—it was flame to tow. He stormed and wheedled, threatened and bribed; the obnoxious instrument was constantly brandished before his eyes. They were walking, one day, on the bank of a river, bounding his grounds,—'I have displayed extraordinary taste in the selection of this estate,' remarked he, 'Its owner should have judgment, as well as wealth. You observe the Delta formed by the fork of the river. Its beauty decided me to close the contract.'

"Very probable, my dear,—it reminds one so much of an open pair of scissors!'

"One push—and she was struggling in the water.

"'I will pull you out, if you promise never to say that word again!' halloed the still foaming husband.

"'Scissors!' screeched she, and down she went.

"'Scissors!' as she arose again. The third time, she came to the surface, too far gone to speak—but as the waters closed over her, she threw up her arms, crossing her fore fingers—thus—and disappeared."

Ida laughed—her rich, musical laugh, which awoke strange echoes in those formal rooms. Mr. Read's portrait frowned down from its niche, and Josephine raised her brows with an air of astonishment, which would have been contempt, had she not been upon the amiable at the time. Another started too, but with a different expression. Few who saw Morton Lacy smile, forgot it. It was not a superficial illumination, but a flashing through of an inward light, as might play upon the surface of a gem-bedded stream, could the sun strike upon its concealed wealth.

"We seldom hear a sound like that, in this age of affectation;" said he, to Josephine.

"She will learn better;" she replied. "She is just from her books, and rather eccentric in some of her ways and notions. I rally her daily upon her little oddities, but she is wilful, as spoiled children will be,—and being older, and more clever than myself, out-argues me. The main point of disagreement is that she is fond of liberty of speech and action, declares Die Vernon her beau ideal of a woman, and I am prudish in my reserve."

"Not prudish—feminine!" he answered, emphatically. "Is she a relative?"

"No: a ward of my father's."

"An orphan!" with a remorseful pity, for which Josephine could have blasted Ida as she sat.

"She does not feel her situation so keenly as a sensitive person would. Those are happiest whose wounds heal soonest,—to whom a life-time grief is unknown. I am thankful that Ida's temperament is mercurial—she is spared much suffering;" and her voice trembled admirably, as she lifted her eyes to a portrait above the mantel. Another adroit hit! the base brought out the ring of the genuine metal.

"There are, indeed, losses, which, in an earthly sense, are irreparable, and although I know nothing personally of such a bereavement, I can understand that the shadow of a mother's tomb grows darker and longer, as the child walks on in the path her care would have smoothed."

"Especially to an orphaned girl; each day has wants and exigencies she had not thought of before. Yet who knows the pains of her lot?" said Josephine, sighing.

repeated Mr. Lacy. "Have you learned that song, according to promise?"

"I always keep my promises."

"May I demand the proof that this one was remembered."

The piece in question lay suspiciously near the top of the portfolio, although she protested that she had "only played it over once, and a fortnight ago."

"It is set as a duett; will not your friend sing with you?"

"I don't know;" shaking her head, smilingly. "She is chary of her favors—all good singers are. Perhaps she will not refuse you—ask her, please! It will be such an improvement!"

Thus importuned, Mr. Lacy went up to Ida, and preferred his request.

"Excuse me, sir, I am not familiar with the music;" said she, surprised that Josephine had despatched him upon such an embassy, when her jealousy of Ida's superiority as a vocalist, had been the cause of innumerable slights and petty meannesses from herself and father.

"Now! be obliging, Ida!" she interposed, "you sing at sight better than I do, after a year's practising."

"I am sorry to appear disobliging, Mr. Lacy;" pursued Ida; and she spoke sincerely, as she met his smile; "but you would not thank me for ruining your song."

"Oh! how can you say so!" exclaimed Josephine. "Mr. Dermott called you a second Malibran; or was it Sappho?"

To Mr. Lacy, this was coaxingly playful; but the fiery spot came to Ida's cheek, at words, which had been piped over, and distorted, until malice itself must be weary of repeating them.

"I beg you to consider my refusal as final and positive;" she said, haughtily. Mr. Lacy bowed, with dignity, and returned to Josephine.

"Am I, also, to be refused?" asked Lynn, as Josephine picked out a third song. "You will not suspect me of empty compliments."

"Not for you, will I sing now and here!" said Ida. "Be sure I have my reasons for objecting to give you pleasure."

"Be quiet, Lynn! she means what she says;" interrupted Charley, as his friend persisted. Lynn obeyed, but his black eyes went from the face of the speaker, to Ida's compressed lips, until they darted an angry light upon Josephine, showing that he had an inkling of the truth.

"This is the beginning!" said Ida, as she knelt at her window to gain tranquillity from the cool and stillness of the night. The moon neared the horizon; the roof-tops contrasted brightly with the shade of the street; and one lofty spire pointed a snowy finger upward, the golden trumpet upon its taper extremity silvered by the pale rays. It was a "sweet south" that bore up the lullaby our beautiful river sings nightly to her myriads of sleeping children; but as the girl gazed and listened, inquietude, instead of peace, had possession of her—the nameless longing that makes mortals weep and strive, and die! that burning craving for something—they cannot tell what—except that earth does not bestow it, and the spirit will not rest without it. It may be, angel-teachers are with us, awakening a desire for, rather than imparting knowledge, which is their food, and can alone satisfy our immortal minds—or our young souls are fluttering their unfledged wings, restless for the flight, instinct tells them is before them—we know not—only that the thirst is fierce—maddening! and there is but one fountain which quenches it. The river's song should have summoned up the vision of those living waters, and their wooing, "Let him that is athirst come!" and the white spire—had its silent gesture no significance?

Ida's thoughts did not rise. A painful truth had that night obtruded itself upon her, that the love of those she esteemed most, had not strengthened her to bear the trials incident to her position. With Carry at her side, to defend and console, many a shaft would have fallen harmless, perchance, unremarked; in her absence, the certainty of her affection did not render Josephine's malevolence innocuous, or her society endurable.

"I was not born for this life! I do not breathe in the penthouse in which they would immure my soul. I cannot escape! I am virtually a prisoner in body and spirit—with energies, which must not act—affections, which must not flow! I thirst for liberty and love!"

Lower and lower dipped the moon—and higher mounted the shade upon the steeple—the golden trumpet was glistenless as the rest, and the stars only kept guard over the slumbering city, and the watcher knelt still—dreaming now love-dreams of appreciation and devotion—trances, almost realities in their passionate idealization; and then, as they cloyed by their very sweetness—or the real and the present would burst upon her, crying in anguished accents, "I thirst!"