Josephine Read gave a party—her first, and the first of the season; an onerous undertaking for a young, and comparatively inexperienced housekeeper; but she went about it bravely and confidently. She did not overrate her capacity; if she had a talent for anything, it was for housewifery—"driving" included. If her domestic machinery did not work well, it was not for lack of scolding; and, it was rumored, not because more stringent measures were not employed by her own fair hands.

"Miss Josephine flies about the kitchen like a pea 'pon a hot shovel;" said Rachel, the day before that for which the rest of the week was made. "It's 'sprising how much spring she's got in that little body of hern, and how much spite too, if you'll 'low me to say it, Miss Ida."

"I certainly shall not," said Ida, severely. "I do not care to hear your remarks upon her now, or at any time. They are neither respectful or becoming."

"Law! Miss Ida! you know Miss Josephine as well as I do; what harm does my talking do? I was goin' to tell you, that I thought I should a' died laughin' to see how mad she was, when Joe dropped the big cake she sent to the confectionaries to have iced. Her face turned red as them curtains, and soon as she could move, she pulled off her shoe, and gave him such a lick 'pon the side of his head, I'll bound he seed stars!"

"Are your preparations concluded?" asked Mr. Read, that night.

"I believe so, sir."

"'You believe so!' why can't you give a direct answer? I hate this mincing you women think so pretty. Are you ready!"

"The table is not set," said Josephine, provokingly, "and the jellies and creams are not turned into the dishes yet."

"What will this tomfoolery cost?" barked her father.

"I don't know, sir—what other people's parties do."

"You are wonderfully independent, young woman! you intend to foot the bills I hope."

No answer, except a bar of a popular air, hummed, while trying on a head-dress.

"Whom have you invited?"

"There is the list—you can read it."

He looked at it surlily. "How many rooms do you open?"

"The parlors and dining room;—unless you prefer to have the dressing-rooms in the third story, and give up your chamber to the dancers."

"Have the goodness to leave me out of the scrape. I shall go to bed directly after supper. You two may do your husband hunting without my help. I pity the man who gets either of you."

"Since you are so much opposed to this party, I will recall my invitations to-morrow morning," retorted Josephine, irritated by his peevish vulgarity, to take a high stand herself.

"You will not, Miss! Carry out what you have commenced—much joy may you have of it!"

What pleasure or benefit could arise from this snarling contradiction, would have defied a wiser brain than Ida's to determine. She once imagined it a part of Mr. Read's schooling; that he sought to inure his pupil to the treatment she would receive from the world; but this impression was corrected by observing that the effrontery he had taught her angered him beyond measure, when exhibited towards himself. Variance appeared to be necessary to their existence; a safety-valve, for the ill humors they could not throw out upon others. It was a curious fact that their going into company, at home or abroad, was invaribly preceded by this moral phlebotomizing, and in proportion to the extent of the depletion, was the subsequent affability. It was therefore to be expected that they should appear in the drawing-room on the evening of the party, looking their best;—she, deferentially respectful to "Papa," and he, marking "my daughter, sir's," motions with paternal pride. A large party usually belongs to one of two classes—the stiffly regular, or the noisily irregular. At the former, there is considerably less sociability and ease than is prevalent among a corps of raw recruits upon parade, under the eye of a martinet drilled serjeant. As many as can obtain seats, seize them; a vacant chair is rushed for, as in the game of "budge-all," and the hapless standers are awkwardly alive to the circumstance of being, not men, but hands, legs and feet; white kid gloves are at a premium, a bouquet is a godsend;—the pulling off and on of the first, and the criticism of the latter, are engrossing subjects of reflection and entertainment. There are knots of men in the entry, and in the corners, and behind doors; and rows of ladies against the wall, and stretched out transversely and longitudinally through the room. Supper over, watches are slyly consulted, yawns dexterously swallowed, and presently the crowd is thinner, though no one goes. Then come whispered adieux;—"so sorry to quit your charming party at this early hour,—but papa charged me to be home by twelve, and he is so particular;" and "my dear Mrs. Heavyaslead, I must tear myself away—mamma was not well to-night; I am quite uneasy about her;"—and there are headaches and sideaches, and toothaches, until the poor hostess wonders that she never suspected before what an unhealthy circle of acquaintances she has.

At a gathering of the second class, everybody knows everybody else, or gets acquainted off-hand, with or without an introduction. The company are, to a man, in favor of a standing army. Except a small number of chairs, over which are carefully trained the confirmed wall-flowers, seats are voted in the way;—each joke is capital;—each laugh a scream. Girls rattle and coquet, and gentlemen bow and flatter; you stumble upon a flirtation at every step, and cannot tread upon a boot or corn without cutting a gallant speech in the middle; time pieces are put back two or three hours, and ostentatiously showed around, to prove that "there is time enough yet." Morning breaks, ere the revellers unwillingly depart, and Mr. and Mrs. Cricketspry hear, for six months after, of the "splendid time we had at your party."

Miss Read's soiree promised to be of the first-named order.—A large proportion of her guests were strangers to each other, and she had not the tact to amalgamate the mixture. A hostess must be impartial; the safest course is to ignore the object of her preference, even at the risk of being misunderstood; better offend one, than an hundred. Josephine made no such heroic sacrifice. She had invited Mr. Lacy; the rest were there to see, and they were not backward to discern this. She had twice made the circuit of the rooms upon his arm, and stood for half an hour between the folding-doors, in conversation, that, so far as her efforts went, was confidential, when her father touched her shoulder. "Are we to have no dancing, Josey?"

"If my friends desire it—certainly! Mr. Pemberton"—as that individual frisked by,—"Do me the favor to act as master of ceremonies, and form a set."

"With pleasure, Miss Josephine, provided I am honored by your hand—for the dance—I mean;" tickled to excess by his witty clause.

The hateful puppy! but there was no retreat. Had Mr. Lacy been out of earshot, she would have pleaded an engagement, so certain was she that he would ask her, but she could not utter so palpable a falsehood in his hearing. She did hope that he would interfere, and with the inimitable self-possession which distinguished him, open an avenue of escape by implying, if not asserting his right of priority; but he was silent, and she yielded an ungracious assent. Mr. Pemberton was a boasted adept in the art of "cutting out"—a system of counter-plotting, too well understood to need explanation here; and as he bustled around, officious and fussy, he circulated, as the latest and best joke, an account of his cunning in "heading off that chap, Lacy."

"Are you fond of this amusement?" inquired the latter of Josephine.

"Passionately!" said she, brightening up at this, as she thought, prefatory remark. The next was still more promising.

"You will not stop at a single set then?"

"Oh, no! I often keep the floor for hours. It is a healthful and innocent exercise. I had rather dance than spend the evening in gossiping after the fashion of the strait-laced sort, who are conscientiously opposed to 'wordly follies.'"

Mr. Lacy smiled, a little queerly. It was evident that he agreed with her, in her estimate of these over-scrupulous worthies. Still, the coveted request did not arrive, and she tossed out a desperate feeler.

"You do not think it undignified to dance, do you?"

"Perhaps if I were to state why I never participate in the pastime you laud so warmly, you would accuse me of an unmanly fondness for a dish of scandal."

What did he say? What did it mean? His amusement increased with her bewilderment, and before an explanation could be asked or given, Mr. Pemberton took her hand.

Ida had, thus far, passed the dullest of dull evenings. Lynn and Charley, who never let her suffer for attention when they were by, had a business engagement which would detain them until late; it was even doubtful if they could come at all. She talked at a moustached, be-whiskered, and be-imperialed youth who solicited an introduction, because he had heard that she was "smart," and hoped she could appreciate him; his conversational talents compensating in quality for their deficiency in quantity; anybody could talk, but who could dress, and stand, and look as he did? She tried to draw him out by encouraging smiles, and well put queries—he tugged at his waistcoat—she rallied him upon his abstraction—he stroked his left whisker—she pretended offence at one of his milk-and-water responses—he performed the like kindly office to the right—and she gave up in despair.

Mr. De Langue was next. He was "smart" himself, and therefore could appreciate her, and to prove this, he rolled forth volume after volume of French compliments, unanswerable, because so highly polished that one could not, as it were, take hold of them;—edified her by disquisitions upon subjects of which she was profoundly ignorant, and information respecting others, of which she knew more than himself. After much manoeuvring she sought refuge in a corner, fatigued, disgusted and misanthropical. "I have thought that I might shine in general company, where feeling never enters, and flaring flippancy passes for wit; it seemed easy to manufacture small-talk, but I was mistaken. This is 'rational recreation!' the pleasure of mingling in 'the best society,' as Josephine says. I envy St. Simon in his twenty years' solitude upon his stone pillar."

"Compton, my dear fellow, can you make room for me to pass?" said a voice near her. "If I were a lady, I would faint, and let you extricate me, as I am not, I must fight my way out."

The gentleman addressed exerted his powers of compression, and Mr. Lacy edged by him. His course was towards the door, but he stopped as he espied Ida "Miss Ross, have you a welcome in your 'Retreat' for a storm-tossed wanderer? Your quiet nook is most inviting."

Ida looked up mischievously. "I will not hinder your flight, Mr. Lacy. Your envy of my corner is wasted upon one who heard you singing a moment since, like the melancholy starling, 'I can't get out! I can't get out!'"

"I plead guilty—but if a mightier temptation has mastered my desire for liberty? There are birds that will not fly after the cage door is unfastened."

"They do not merit freedom," said she.

"Be it so—this is my prison," rejoined the gentleman, seating himself upon an ottoman which Josephine, to get out of the way, had wedged behind the door, thinking as she did so, that it might prevent the pressure of the crowd from breaking the hinges, with not a presentiment that she was furnishing a hiding-place for the last one of all the world whom she would have concealed.

"Now," continued he, "as I can see but one, I recognise but one jailor, and you will be merciful, remembering my voluntary incarceration. And as a starting-point to the conversation, why are you not in the other room?"

"For the simple reason that no one has invited me to dance."

He looked surprised, yet pleased at her frankness. "You would go, if you received an invitation?"

"That would depend upon circumstances. I should assuredly decline one from you."

"And why?"

"I would not accept of anything offered in obedience to what the one who tendered it considered a hint. How I might act if I were a devotee of Terpsichore, I do not know, but a conversazione is more attractive to me than a ball."

"We shall not quarrel there, and it is well that we agree in disagreeing with the general sentiment. Taught by the experience gained in our short acquaintance, I should prefer a petition with a quaking heart."

"You need not apprehend a refusal, provided your demand is reasonable and properly timed," answered Ida.

"Which of these provisoes was wanting to ensure the success of the suit you negatived, upon the evening of our introduction?"

"Both," she returned, laughing. "You insisted that I should sing, at sight, a song already dear to you, and I declined to spoil the music, and wreck my musical reputation with a stranger, from whose mind I might never have an opportunity of removing the unfortunate opinion."

"In contrariety to these considerations, were the wish to oblige me, and a dislike to wound the feelings of your friend, Miss Josephine, and this scale kicked the beam?" said Mr. Lacy, interrogatively.

"No; Josephine was out of the question; she did not expect me to comply. We never sing together—or very rarely. My voice is not a contralto, nor does it accord with her's. You will have to be content with my explanation; I speak truth in the smallest matters."

"The false in trifles are seldom reliable in things of greater moment," replied the other. "There is less deliberate, malicious falsehood in the world than we suppose. Men are oftener liars from habit, than from necessity or temptation."

"But to this habit there must be a beginning. Is there no sin in the earliest deviation from the right way?"

"I did not say that there is not sin in every violation of truth. Each one is a stain upon the soul—blots, that too frequently deface it forever; but I do not subscribe to the casuistry that gauges the guilt of a lie entirely by its effects upon others—which smiles upon, as a harmless simpleton, him who 'fibs' or 'yarns' or 'embroiders' in cowardice or vanity, and empties the vials of wrath upon the Pariah, who seeks, by one heaven-daring falsehood, to save what he holds most dear. One destroys the mirror by gradually damaging its bright surface, the other shivers it at one reckless blow."

"This has often struck me," said Ida. "It appears to me that the slower process deadens the conscience most surely, and the insensibility of those who practice it, betrays a more diseased state of the moral system than the pangs of remorse."

"Undoubtedly; and this should make us doubly watchful against any infringement of veracity. The straightest, the only safe road is 'the truth—the whole truth—and nothing but the truth.'"

"And who adheres to this rule?" asked Ida. "How much truth, do you imagine, is being uttered now in these rooms?"

"We are discoursing very philosophically, and will be charitable enough to believe that numerous couples are similarly engaged."

"Do you recollect Talleyrand's definition of speech?" inquired Ida.

"'A faculty whereby we conceal our thoughts'—yes—a sentence worthy of its author. What a life this would be if we were all Talleyrands!"

"We are—according to our capacities," said Ida.

"A singular sentiment for one of your age and sex!" replied Mr. Lacy, with a searching look. "Has the world served you so unkindly, that you condemn your kind without reservation?"

"There was a mental reservation; yet my observation was true in a general sense. Men live for themselves;—it is humiliating to see how this principle regulates feeling and action. We love our friends because they are ours;—the pronoun 'my' expresses a nearness and sweetness which causes us to idolize the thing we appropriate;—'my own' is the most endearing of appellations—what is the delight it inspires, but the grossest vanity and selfishness?"

"Pardon me, that I differ with you. Our love is won by the qualities of its object;—there would be no pleasure in appropriation were not our affections enlisted;—no thrill of joy in identifying with ourselves, the unknown or unlovely;—if forced upon us, dislike would ensue. We become attached to our dear ones for their own sakes; although it cannot be denied, that a knowledge of a reciprocation of affection is an auxiliary to the growth of that fondness."

"And do you honestly credit the disinterestedness of human nature?"

"I do—in many instances, and so do you. Look at the benefactors of mankind—a Howard, preferring the noisome prison-cell to competence and home;—a Wilberforce, spending and spent in the great work;—the missionaries of the cross, at this moment scattered in all lands, cut off from friends and civilization, without prospect of emolument or renown; forgotten, it may be, by all but Him, in whose strength they labor; where is the self-interest in this?"

"Your last is a puzzling case. The theory I have advanced, perhaps too boldly, was not of my own choosing. I was compelled to its adoption by evidence which seemed incontestable, and I retain it because it solves more riddles in the complex machinery of society than any other I have heard. But it has its difficulties, and the main one is such conduct as you allude to. There is a key to the enigma, I suppose, if I could only find it."

"There is," said Mr. Lacy, feelingly. "There is a love which purifies the rest, a peace we would have all men know. They err, who say that devotion to God weans the heart from our friends. Our Divine Master has left us a new commandment—'that we love one another,' and with the increase of our love for Him, our souls enlarge, until the arms of brotherly kindness embrace the universal family of mankind. There is no such being as a selfish Christian."

Ida listened in amazement. This language was uncommon at any time and place out of the pulpit, but from an elegant and popular young man, it was novel in the extreme.

"I can hardly understand the workings of a principle, which is itself a mystery," she said. "Time was when religion was a household word to me, but exposure to adverse influences has erased from my mind all knowledge of this kind, if I ever had any understanding of its meaning."

"You have the instruction of the immortal spirit within you. Is that satisfied with its fare? Are you content with yourself and your mode of life?"

"Content!" The tone was a sufficient reply.

"Will you allow me to use the freedom of a friend, Miss Ross, and show you that in neglecting this subject you shut your eyes to the only true happiness? I know that the lot which appears brightest is checkered with vicissitudes—inward struggles, more trying than many visible afflictions. Against these, neither the spirits of youth nor the reasonings of philosophy can always prevail. I know how the lip smiles and the heart bleeds, although the anguish within does not drown the gay words upon the tongue. We may—we do conceal, but the sting rankles the same. Our Father never designed that we should be happy away from Him. These misgivings, this discontent with ourselves, and pinings for something better and higher, are voices beseeching us to partake of his love; they are the homesickness of a child, who has strayed, and has forgotten in new scenes the parent he has deserted, and the sight of a flower, a breath of warm air, a song he used to love, calls up the remembrance of that father, and a gush of shame and longing he is too proud to confess. Thus much all feel, but upon some fall heavier trials. Earth has no cure for the woes which a residence here entails upon us. Young as you are you may know this?"

"I do!"

"Is what I am saying disagreeable to you?"

"No, sir;—go on, if you please!"

"Then, if we are told of One, who cannot only comfort, but convert distress into blessing; of whose loving protection nothing can deprive us; who will make this life tolerable—nay, pleasant, and assure us of an eternity of bliss to be shared with Him,—is it not the maddest folly to refuse the pledge He asks in return—a child's love and trust?"

"I do not feel that I have acted thus!" said Ida, suddenly. "My reason assents to what you have said, but my conscience is dumb. The thought of a God—Almighty and Holy—overwhelms me with awe—sometimes-with terror. As Ruler and Judge, I pay him homage, and obey, when I can, the letter of His law;—but He does not care particularly for me—one of the most obscure of His countless subjects. I believe that He is a tender Father to the favored ones who have tasted His grace, and they ought to adore and love. I thank Him, from afar off, for preservation—not for creation—and he does not call me nearer. You think me very wicked, Mr. Lacy;—but as I said, if I speak at all, I speak candidly."

"I like your truthfulness. You express what others secretly feel; this distant respect is the natural tone of an enlightened mind, wedded to an unregenerate heart; and in your remarks, I detect the bitterness which is its concomitant,—amounting, in some, to deadly enmity against their Maker and Redeemer. Do you read the Bible—may I ask?"

"Yes—occasionally."

"From what motive?"

"I read it as a curiosity in literature—but that is not the principal reason"—

"Excuse me,—I had no right to put the question. I wished to know if you had noticed one or two passages—such as—'All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient and gainsaying people.' 'When I called ye did not answer—when I spake, ye did not hear.' 'O Israel! thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy hope!' There is scarcely a page which does not bear some moving expostulation or entreaty; and the disciple who knew Him best, condenses in one celestial drop the stream of revelation,'God is Love!' Not a word of Power or Justice! We cannot exaggerate these attributes, but we may dwell upon them, to the exclusion of His long-suffering and loving kindness."

"You have a strange way of speaking of these matters;" said Ida. "I am acquainted with a number of excellent Christians, who never refer to the name by which they are called, but at long intervals, in set terms, and in a tone which frightens the 'sinners' to whom they address their exhortations. I have been troubled whether to question their sincerity, or the Faith, which they assert, controls them."

"Doubt neither. Ascribe their silence to diffidence, or a fear of giving offence; their unhappy manner, to ignorance of the proper method of managing hearts. It is to be regretted that the one Reality upon the globe should be banished from familiar conversation. If a man is sleeping upon the sea-shore, the big waves washing his pillow at each surge, am I censurable if I end his happy slumbers? Or, to employ an illustration which suits me better—I have a dear friend, to whom you are a stranger. With my esteem for you, will not my desire to bring you together, grow stronger? When I discover traits in you which he would approve, will not I tell you of him, and use every means to facilitate an acquaintance, so pleasant and profitable? Especially, if a time is certainly coming, when you will require his assistance;—an emergency is to overtake you, when all help but his will be vain—does it not become my imperative duty to implore you to accept the friendship he stands ready to bestow?"

"Do not the Scriptures speak of the veil that is upon their hearts?" said Ida.

"Yes—but it is the veil of unbelief. If we do not of ourselves endeavour to tear it away, the light which streams upon us, at its removal, may be too late. God does not need, but He demands our co-operation in His schemes for our salvation. There is our friend, Charley Dana; he is late for a gentleman of his punctual habits."

The conversation changed. Ida would gladly have heard more of a topic, so unusual, and previously so unpleasing, but he dropped it, and she did not oppose him. The manner, more than the matter of his language, took her fancy. He did not arrogate superiority of sense or goodness, and had none of the stereotyped cant she dreaded; he did not preach, but talked, easily and quietly; most of the time, with the smile she thought so beautiful, and she observed his avoidance of "you" and "I,"—substituting, when it could be done—"we" and "us," as if to lay a platform of perfect equality. If he had intended to leave the room, when he fell in with her, he altered his purpose. Charley and Lynn paid their respects, chatted awhile, and went their ways;—the former to dance and jest with divers merry belles, who hailed his approach, a relief from the very minor flats, upon which they had been playing, during the tedious hours in the halls, which were not "halls of mirth." Lynn sought Ellen Morris; and if Ida had seen the scarlet stain that suffused her cheeks, as she perceived him, she would have had "confirmation strong" of a suspicion entertained from the first time she had beheld them together. Mr. Lacy withstood his jailor's offers of liberation. "If she were inclined to change her place, or to promenade, he was at her service, but no alteration could better his condition;" and Ida's fears of detaining him, being dissipated by this straight-forward avowal, she abandoned herself to the enjoyment of communion with a noble intellect and finely-attuned spirit. The announcement of supper, the tocsin of liberty to a majority of the company, interrupted their lively dialogue.

Long before this, Josephine's eyes had raked the parlours from wall to wall, and she was fully satisfied, or dis-satisfied that her polar star was missing.

In the sickness of the disappointment, she hated the show of pleasure going on about her: the most fagged-out of the chaperon wall-flowers did not wish for the hour of separation more ardently than did she. There was one streak of light upon the cloud;—no society could recompense him for parting with hers, and he had departed in consequence: but she could have bitten her tongue off, as she deplored her injudicious declaration (untrue too!) of devotion to an amusement, for which she cared nothing. Was ever girl so impolitic? What if he were himself one of this "religious sort?" the bare supposition was distracting! she had committed the unpardonable sin!

"What have you done with Mr. Lacy?" queried one and another, and a ready untruth answered, "He had an engagement, which obliged him to go early." Charley overheard one repetition of this excuse; but although his eyes wandered, with a comical roll, towards the retreat of the recusant, he kept his own counsel. By supper-time, she was so convinced of the truth of her fabrication, that she neglected to institute a search which would have showed her Mr. Lacy and Ida, at the farthest end of the table. Twice again, she could have been blessed by a sight of him. Charley having invited Ida to a promenade in the hall, Mr. Lacy bethought him of his fair and partial hostess; but she was not to be found. She was lying upon the bed in her chamber, fretting over her "foolishness," and the "stupidity and worry" of all parties,—hers in particular. Smoothing her face and ringlets, she regained the parlor by one door, as Morton left it by another. He encountered Ida and Charley, and walked with them until the carriages came to the door. Josephine accompanied several of her most fashionable guests to the dressing-room; and Mr. Lacy, seeing there was no one to receive his congÉ, made none.

The day after! Mr. Read was growling and headachy;—Josephine in her worst humor, and itching to vent it. The breakfast hour was enlivened by a continual peppering of small shot from her, varied by a big gun from her father. He sneered at her arrangements and company, saying much that was cuttingly true, more, really, than he was aware of; and she pecked at him and the servants. In spite of her dislike, Ida pitied her, as she surveyed the heaps of unwashed dishes and glasses; the carpets, spotted with wine,—cake and jelly trampled into their velvet; and the forlorn disorder that reigned over all. She was on the point of offering her assistance, when Josephine brushed by her, with a peremptory order to "folks who were cluttering up the room, to be off, if they did not mean to work!" Herself, the cat and the footman, who was collecting the remains of the feast, comprising the auditory, Ida thought herself justifiable in taking a share of the hint.

She sent Rachel down in her place, enjoining upon her, as a prudential measure, not to speak, unless when asked a direct question.

As to Ida, the close of her evening had more than compensated for the ennui of the beginning; she had no foiled stratagems, no tangled snares to lament; yet the dissipation produced a nervous languor, tempting, yet dissuading her from action. She read—and the letters danced cotillions and waltzes over the page. The piano was in the parlor—but so was Josephine. She essayed to sew, and stitched up a seam wrong side out, and ran the point of the needle under her finger nail.

"I must walk—I have it! Mrs. Dana will like to hear about the party, and there is Elle's doll's hat."

Her gloves were in a bureau drawer, and near them lay a velvet case, enclosing the miniature of her parents—excellent likenesses, but owing to some oversight in mixing, or in the quality of the colors, they were fading already. She had signified to Mr. Read her intention to have them copied, before they should be so much defaced as to render it impracticable; why not give them to Lynn? His ability was uncontrovertible—it would be a kindness to him now, in the outset of his professional career; and she had the vanity to believe that he would bestow double pains upon what she so valued. She would carry them to Mrs. Dana, and ask her advice.

That lady was in her nursery, which was one of Ida's accustomed haunts. She was at home at once; tossing the babe, and joining her voice to its chuckling laugh, until the room rang again; Charley hanging upon her dress to entreat her praises of his hobby-horse; and Elle waiting patiently to kiss her for the "sweet bonnet that just fitted Dolly."

"You have come to stay a good long time with me, I know," said Mrs. Dana. "Here is a note I was about to send to you, requesting the pleasure of your company to dinner. I thought you had rather be out of the way while Miss Josephine is 'cleaning up,' and to be candid, Mr. Dana has invited two or three gentlemen to dine with us, and I am too bashful to face them unsupported. I did not write this, lest you should have scruples on the subject, but you must stay for my sake and John's. He made it a point that you should be asked. Do you know I am getting jealous?"

"But indeed, my dear madam"—

"But indeed, my dear miss, you will remove your bonnet immediately."

Resistance was useless; nor would Ida have offered it, had she been sure of meeting only the family; for the sun shone more brightly into this home-nest of cheerful peace, than into the abode she had lately quitted. The Danas knew enough of Mr. Read and Josephine, to make them solicitous to withdraw Ida as much from their influence as was consistent with her duty as a ward. She never complained, except to Carry, but they respected her the more for her prudence.

"You will spoil me," said she, as Mrs. Dana untied her bonnet.

"No danger," replied the lady, kissing her forehead—Carry's caress—and as other lips did, years ago. Tears stood in the orphan's eyes, but they did not fall. Elle wondered why cousin Ida could not see her doll's cloak without holding her head so near to it.

Mrs. Dana approved entirely of her project.

"Will you take them to him this morning?" inquired she.

"I certainly had such a notion, but I do not like to go without you, and as you are expecting company"—

"No time like the present, my dear. My dinner is in the hands of the cook; I shall not be wanted here for two hours. It is a lovely day, and I am glad of an errand that affords an excuse to go out."

As they were passing "Dana & Co.'s" she halted.

"Had we not better ask Mr. Dana to pilot us? I am uncertain of the exact locality of this same studio."

Mr. Dana could not go; he was waiting upon a country customer with a memorandum as long as his arm; but he conducted the ladies into the counting-room. Charley was there, at a tall desk, buried in ledgers and filed bills; and so business-like, that Ida hung back upon the threshold—a fear, of which she was ashamed, as he extended both hands to her, thanked them for their visit, and offered to escort them. He unlocked his bachelor's pantry of crackers, cheese and choice Madeira, hospitality which they civilly declined. Mr. Dana left the counter "to hope that he should see Miss Ida at dinner;" a courtesy which was a a sign of esteem and favor from one of his reticent disposition.

Lynn's studio was a small, but exquisitely appointed room. It was a minute before the eyes, used to the out-door light, could penetrate the claro-obscuro of its twilight.

Ida knew Lynn by his voice, and pressure of her hand, then a taller figure was developed to her vision, and she recognised Mr. Lacy.

"Are you engaged, Mr. Holmes?" asked Mrs. Dana.

"No, madam; Mr. Lacy has just concluded a sitting—the last. Your coming is opportune, you can criticise his portrait."

The voice was unanimous. It was a masterly painting, and faithful to life.

"A personable individual too, Morton—considering—" said Charley. "Did you have it painted for a sign-board? 'Morton Lacy, attorney at law,—For recommendations, see heading of this article.' What a multitude of lady-clients you would have!"

"It is for a lady who will not part with it, even to procure me a press of clients—for my mother," returned Mr. Lacy. "She will feel herself to be under great obligations to you, Mr. Holmes, for so truthful a transcript of her 'absent boy.'"

Ida looked at the original instead of the picture. It was, then, the handsomer of the two. With a complimentary observation of the workmanship, he dismissed the subject, and directed Ida to a genuine Claude, Lynn's pride and boast. She slipped her case into Mrs. Dana's hand, and followed him. Lynn presently approached.

"It would be an idle form to say that I am honoured by your application," said he. "Your heart will tell you how I esteem this proof of your friendship. It is a sacred trust, and as such I will fulfil it."

"I feared you would discourage me," replied Ida. "Is it not difficult to take a picture, the size of life, from a miniature?"

"It requires care, and a just regard to proportions; but I have an assurance of success in my willingness to attempt the work. I hope—I know I shall not fail. Now, what shall I do to entertain you? I am so unused to morning calls from ladies—and such ladies! that I am at a loss how to bear my honors."

"Where are those long-promised portfolios?" said Ida. "We could not desire a more acceptable treat."

The hour consumed in the examination of the artist's pictured treasures, was, to Ida, one of unalloyed delight. There might yet be diamonds in the pebbly sands of Richmond. Coke loomed up threateningly before Mr. Lacy; and Charley and Mrs. Dana felt some conscience-prickings, at the thought of Daybooks and desserts; but they did not offer to stir until Lynn affirmed that he had nothing more to show.

"There are good points in this working-day life of ours, are there not?" said Charley, as they went down the steps.

"Just my sentiments!" answered Mr. Lacy. "Yet Mr. Holmes is a dangerous citizen. He has beguiled an unsuspecting youth out of two hours of study. This is my apology for leaving pleasant company;—it is a consolation to a benevolent-minded person like myself, to know that I, and not they, will suffer from the separation. Adieu!"

"'Till dinner-time," said Mrs. Dana.

Mr. Dana convened a circle of friends to meet a young Northerner, the bearer of an introductory letter from his New York partner; and it was apparent that his ideas of the boundaries of civilization—'North by Cape Cod—South by Sandy Hook'—were seriously shaken by this peep at Virginia life. Mrs. Dana was, Charley maintained, a 'star housekeeper'; and her laurels did not wilt to-day. A perfect understanding existed between her and her head-waiter, 'Uncle Abraham.' She did not issue an order; and in emulation of her quiet manner, his instructions to his satellites were inaudible to the guests. Mr. Lacy, Lynn, Mr. Brigham, (the stranger,) Mr. Villet, a French gentleman, whose amiability and politeness would have been his passport in any kingdom and clime, Mr. Thornton, recently admitted to the bar, and a fair sample of the educated Southerner; with the two Danas, and the ladies, made up the company.

Mr. Thornton sat by Ida; Mr. Lacy opposite. His quick look of pleasure, as he was shown his place, indicated his satisfaction; and although he did not interfere with her brilliant neighbor by addressing her in words, he did so frequently by his eye and smile. The conversation streamed on in a glittering tide;—Mr. Thornton, always ready with fun or sense, and Charley, whose creed interdicted flagging chit-chat leading—then Lynn, warming, dashed in; pursued, very cautiously, by Mr. Brigham. Mr. Villet cheered them on by his gusto of every repartee; and John Dana set his seal of confirmation upon each profound remark. Mr. Lacy said comparatively little; he seemed to prefer looking on; but his intelligent countenance spoke so eloquently for him, that his silence did not obstruct the hilarious current. There was another listener, who entered heartily into the spirit of the hour;—never imagining that the speakers gathered animation from her beaming face. She was oblivious of the fact of her bodily presence, until brought to the knowledge by the host's,

"Mr. Lacy,—Miss Ross will take a glass of wine with you."

Mr. Lacy spoke a word to the servant who stood prepared to fill his glass; and bowing with graceful composure to his vis-À-vis—

"Miss Ross will not forbid my pledging her health and happiness in a purer draught," he said, and raised a tumbler of water to his lips.

Temperance societies were not much in vogue in those days; and were not in such odor as now; and this movement astounded all present. Mr. Thornton, who had the common infirmity of wits, who have not learned the inadequacy of this one talent,—rare 'though it be,—to supply the loss of everything else: and whose greatest fault was, that he ran his trenchant blade as often into the breast of a friend, as foe, assailed his professional brother on the spot. He was parried with immovable good humour; and the others came to his aid; some with arguments, some with questions. Even Mr. Villet could not refrain from a cut of polite ridicule. The assailed maintained his ground manfully; neither staggered nor dismayed by the odds against him. He knew every foot of the field, having fought upon it more times than any of them. Charley laid down his arms first—'silenced if not convinced' he owned; Mr. Thornton was 'floored' by a thrust equal to his last blow;—the fate of the battle was to be determined by single combat; Lynn being unvanquished. He was an expert fencer; and changing his tactics, stood upon the defensive. Once and again, was he forced into a corner, from which retreat appeared impossible; and as often was he seen the next moment, fighting in the open plain, with unbattered crest. His opponent proposed a suspension of hostilities, but the auditors vetoed it peremptorily. They were alike amused and interested; and Mr. Lacy observed, with a smile, that the ruby poison, the engenderer of the strife, was untouched during the discussion. Mrs. Dana made a feint of withdrawal, and was solicited to remain, 'to be in at the death,' Charley said. He had a double motive in supporting the request; he foresaw defeat for Lynn; and although the admirable temper of the argument was likely to continue to the end, he judged it best to keep his gallantry in play, as a balance-wheel to his impetuosity. The event did not disappoint his expectation. Lynn was game to the last, but surrender or not, he was indubitably beaten. Mr. Lacy covered his enemy's rout by a flattering tribute to his argumentative abilities, and the two laughingly shook hands, as they arose from the board.

In the parlor, their undisputed court, the ladies received the attention which had been diverted from them by the wordy war.

"To show that I bear no malice for old scores, I repeat the petition that met with so obstinate a refusal," said Mr. Lacy, giving Ida his arm. "Will you sing for me?"

she replied, running her fingers over the keys.

"That I leave to you. I do not know what suits your voice or taste."

"'The Last Rose of Summer,'" prompted Charley; "afterwards, the 'Captive Knight.'"

Mr. Lacy laughed; supposing he intended a satire upon the "miscellaneous" songsters, he had also thought of, when he objected to making a selection; and Ida, slightly piqued at his want of confidence in her powers of vocalization, sang both with inimitable skill and expression. The gentlemen pressed around to ask, each, for his favorite song. She complied readily and patiently. The natural compass and strength of her voice had been increased by diligent practice, yet music was with her, more a passion than an art; her songs, spirit-utterances instead of the compositions of others, learned by rote.

"She is actually beautiful!" said Mr. Dana, aside to his brother.

"Something above the order of puppets, nicknamed young ladies, with which people ornament their parlors now-a-days," was the reply.

Removed from the gnome-like regards of Josephine, she was, indeed, a different being. The presence of this girl was a mental extinguisher—smothering the flame of feeling in fetid smoke—the kindliness of the Danas, the generous oil feeding the exhausted lamp. Years afterwards, when the purple flush had faded from life's morning, the scene preceding her departure upon this evening, would recur, as one of the proudest and happiest moments of her existence—John Dana, standing in front of her, his grave features relaxed into a smile of fatherly fondness, as he heard her defence of herself against an accusation of Mr. Thornton's—Mrs. Dana, her hand upon her husband's shoulder, listening and enjoying—Charley and Lynn, her allies and counsellors, waiting to add their testimony—Mr. Lacy sitting beside her, and drinking in her words with an avidity that brought the blood tingling to her cheeks, and excited the meaning smiles of the spectators. She was in her proper sphere; the centre and idol of a home-circle. The praises lavished upon her were honestly won—too much would have satiated, not spoiled—the utter absence of reward soured her.

"I have had a happy, happy day, dear Mrs. Dana!" whispered she, at going. "I shall write to Carry to-morrow, to apprise her how well you fill her place."

Mr. Lacy attended her home. Curiosity had set for him the study of her character. Her mien bespoke no ordinary soul; and the inuendoes of Josephine, meant to deter him from prosecuting it, stimulated his desire. They had been together repeatedly, previous to the party, but always in the company of the Extinguisher. Her arch glance and rejoinder to his thoughtless remark, while recalling Josephine's insinuation of her hoydenish propensities, nevertheless fascinated him. From being amused, he grew interested; he was working a mine of thought, and unless the clue was false, there was a substratum of feeling. The friendship of the Danas convinced him that the heart was warm and true. He saw the frank girl amidst the friends in the studio, and the accomplished woman in the coterie of the evening; and could not say which was most attractive. "So much intelligence and so little affectation are seldom seen in the same person;" he meditated. "She has the materials for a noble character." Did he think to mould it!