Charley departed, and for several days, Ida disregarded his injunction of cheerfulness. She liked the warm-hearted, reliable Arthur; but she was unjust in her vexation at his happiness, when she pictured the lonely brother, who had sacrificed his, to preserve it unabated. Her conscience reproached her for a display of this impatience, while they were watching the receding form of their visitor. Arthur linked her arm in his, saying playfully, "Come, cousin Ida, tell us what made you and my rattling brother so sober this morning. You parted as if you did not expect to meet again in this world. Is there any hope of my claiming nearer kinship?"

With a quick, fretful gesture she broke from him; and although she recovered herself immediately, and answered pleasantly, he was amazed and wounded, and never repeated the familiarity. A letter from Mr. Lacy came opportunely to brighten the current of thought. She wished Charley could read it; but as this was not to be, she embodied its sentiments in her reply to a communication she had received from him. She was in the habit of moralising speculatively; and he had no clue to betray from what quarter this practical strain had emanated.

John arrived a week before the marriage, with intelligence that set the house in a turmoil; Charley had started to Missouri that morning. He "was the bearer of his excuses and the bridal gift." Carry wept; and Arthur was indignant; Dr. Carleton proposed a postponement, which was unanimously voted for by the servants. "Twouldn't be no wedding wuth talking about, 'thout Mars' Charles was thar!" The motion was strenuously opposed by a minority of three—John, Ida and Arthur; John asserting, in his business way, that the ceremony could be performed as well without the absentee; and that his example of punctuality in keeping engagements should be improved. The two others deprecated a change, without distinctly stating their reasons. They carried the day. Poplar-grove was visible for miles around, on the moonless night of the bridal. Lights blazed in every window; starry festoons depended from the trees; and in the garden, the glow-worm fairies might have been celebrating the royal birth-night. In doors, the scene was one of bewildering beauty. Fairies of mortal mould flitted through the summer bowers, at whose decoration, Flora must have presided in person. Carry was too modest to covet display; but Dr. Carleton was wealthy and liberal; and Ida and Mrs. Dana, who were both fond of splendor and excitement, had his hearty concurrence in their designs. The former planned everything. It was a new business to her; but she struck out boldly, copying a gorgeous conception of her fertile brain, guided solely by her eye and judgment. Her subordinates marvelled at first; but had too much faith in her to rebel; and as the idea was developed, their industry and delight surpassed her expectations. When completed, the effect was so novel and pleasing, they were ready to fall down and worship her; and more cultivated taste did not derogate from their eulogistic approbation. Dr. Carleton thanked her with moistened eyes; Arthur laughingly wondered—"what talent next? her versatile genius kept him in a state of perpetual wonderment;" but Carry's silent kiss was dearer praise than all. As first bridesmaid, and an inmate of the mansion, Ida was virtually mistress of the ceremonies; Mrs. Dana confining her attention to the arrangement of the banquet, dressing-rooms and chambers. Carry had invited all of her schoolmates who were within reach; among those who came, were Anna Talbot, Emma Glenn, Ellen Morris, who was staying at Mr. Truman's, and our old friend Celestia;—"cousin Lucindy" being again conveniently remembered. The three first named, were bridesmaids. Ida walked with Mr. Euston; and as the train formed, she thought of the two who would have taken precedence of him; of the chilly sleep of the pulseless heart, and the desolation of the living one; while the irrevocable words were said, she heard, like the echo of a knell—"caring for nothing, striving for nothing—now that my guiding star has set;" and the sigh, which contended with her smile of salutation to the bride, was "poor Charley!"

Ellen Morris, too, may have had her reminiscences; this event could not but revive the recollection of her sister's bridal, not a year before; but the sparkling hazel orbs were unshadowed as then; her manner as charmingly coquettish. Celestia had not forgotten Mr. Euston; and seized an early opportunity to renew their flirtation. The gentleman was not so willing; he was not exactly in love with his partner; but was not insensible to her attractions, and that in his position he was envied by most of the single men present—cordially hated by one. Ida knew not that he was taxing every energy to achieve fascination. She felt the nervousness of a youthful hostess that things should "go off" well; the company be pleased with their reception and themselves; conscious, that although the praise or censure might not be put upon her, yet in reality the result depended upon her exertions. Solicitude yielded to triumphant satisfaction, as the electric sympathy spread, leaping from tongue to tongue; and evolving, in dazzling coruscations, from kindling eyes. She did not seek her reward then, but she had it. Few were so blind and ungrateful, as not to recognise her hand in the pleasures offered to them. The girls, the most fastidious of the various classes for whose whims a party-giver has to cater, forgave her magnet influence upon the choicest beaux, as they were themselves well-supplied notwithstanding; the old people were charmed with her respectful affability; and of her immediate attendants, there was not one who was not convinced that he contributed most to her amusement.

Ill-nature is indigenous to all soils, and spite creates its own food; and she did not escape wholly unscathed. She overheard the epithets, "flirt," and "dashing," in the same breath with her name; but she laughed at the silly shot. If she flirted, no one was offended or injured; if she dashed, she did it with a grace her maligners tried vainly to copy. As she left the supper-room, a glance at the hall-mirror showed that her head-dress was disordered; and she repaired to the dressing-room to rectify it. She paused before the glass there, in unfeigned wonder at the reflected figure. It was the first time a spark of personal vanity had ever inflamed her mind. She knew that she was admired; she believed, because she amused people by her sprightly repartee; compliments upon her appearance were forgotten as soon as heard, leaving, as their only trace, contempt for their author. To-night, the thoughtful eyes were alive with light; the cheeks, usually colorless, as rosy as Carry's; and the wreathing smile imparted a wondrous beauty to the proud lips. A softer, sweeter happiness succeeded the girlish exultation—pardonable since it was short-lived—she turned from the mirror, with indifference, as she murmured—

An exclamation interrupted the quotation. She snatched up a letter from the table. "It must have come this afternoon, and they forgot to give it me. How unkind!" This was too public a place, there was constant passing in and out; but she could not be debarred its perusal until the guests' departure. A closet opened beyond the chamber; she carried a lamp in thither, and bolted the door. He wrote kindly, but more constrainedly than formerly; and the sense of some phrases was confused, as if he had commenced them, meaning to say one thing, and changed his mind ere the conclusion. His sister had been very ill, he said, but was now out of danger; and his statement of this simple fact appeared embarrassed. She read two pages in perplexity whether to chide his ambiguity, or her unsettled thoughts; "And now, my dear friend," so ran the third, "I have to solicit indulgence for my egotism, while I speak of an event of incomparable importance—and than which, nothing was more remote from my thoughts, four months ago. Annie has another nurse besides myself this summer; an early playmate of ours, a gentle girl, who, I think, must resemble your friend Carry, in character and person. She visited Annie early in April; and an angel of healing she has proved to our beloved sufferer. It is an affecting sight—one so young and fair, deserting the society she would adorn, for the wearisome offices of a sick-room. I have said that she is gentle, and in disposition and deportment essentially feminine;—add to these, the intelligence and accomplishments of a strong and thoroughly-trained mind; and you will not be surprised that she has gained our hearts;—will not accuse me of precipitancy, when you hear that I have sought and obtained her promise to return to us, united by a dearer tie than the bonds of friendship. I do not merit this gift at the hands of Providence; for I have rebelled, in times past, at the strokes I knew were just, but could not acknowledge were merciful. There is nothing earthly which can compare with the love of a true-hearted woman.—If I ever needed an incentive to industry I have it in this. Months—years, perhaps—must elapse before our union. It may be said, I have not acted prudently in forming an engagement, whose consummation is so distant; but I have obeyed the voice of my heart and conscience."

Aye! crumple the sheet in your grasp, and sink to the earth—a crushed thing! struck down from the zenith of your pride and bliss—crushed and mangled—but living and feeling! Grief does not always stun—it seldom kills—you must live, although each lacerated heart-string is crying out for death! Say not that it came without warning! Was there no voice in your early bereavement—in the stern lessons of your girlhood—in the frustration of an hundred cherished purposes—in Lynn's suicidal madness—in Ellen's remorse—in Charley's withered heart? Why were you made to feel, see, know these, if not to teach you, that they who lean upon mortal's love trust to the weakest of rotten reeds—they "who sow the wind, must reap the whirl wind"—black, bitter, scorching!