"I never thought you unreasonable before, Ida."

"I am sorry you should now, Carry."

"How can I help it, when after travelling with us for weeks you suddenly resolve to return to Eastern Virginia by yourself; and to that lonesome place in the country, which you have not visited for years!"

"I have an escort; a gentleman who is on his way to Richmond, and will take charge of me."

"But why this notion, just as we decided to go north? Has your curiosity to behold Niagara diminished since your sight of 'the Bridge?'"

"Frankly and truly, I do not care to see it. I would not ride to the House Mountain yonder, if Mont Blanc, the Lake of Como, and the Great Fall were to be seen from the other side."

"Do you hear that, Arthur?" said Carry, despairingly, to her husband, who was reading.

"No—what is it?"

"This obstinate young lady is about to deprive us of the honour of her company. She is going back to Staunton to-morrow."

"To the Lunatic Hospital?" inquired Arthur, putting aside his book. "You are not in earnest, Ida? Are you tired of us; or do you dislike our sketched route? If the last, we will alter it."

"And if the first, we will alter ourselves," interposed Carry, laughingly.

"I would have you and your plans remain as they are. I am not well, and require rest—not change. My desire to see old Sunnybank is not a caprice, as Carry supposes; I have had it in contemplation for a long time. Mr. Read deterred me from it by representations of the discomfort I would encounter; the only white man left on the plantation being the overseer. This summer he has been removed, and his place given to a former tenant of mother's; a man of family; and the accommodations, which serve for them, will keep me from hardship."

"She is sick," said Carry, when Ida retired. "She has not been herself lately. Were it not that she is used to dissipation, I should think that the round of parties, after our wedding, overtasked her strength. Yet, she enjoyed them."

"Her malady may be of the mind," said Dr. Dana, thoughtfully. "Do you consider this probable?"

"Oh, no! she was well and happy when she came to us; and what can have occurred since to affect her?"

"You are right, I dare say;" returned he, absently. He was pondering upon her behaviour after Charley's departure.

Argument did not dissuade, and conjecture was baffled in the effort to explain this unexpected movement. They parted in Lexington—Ida to recross the mountains eastward; they, to travel north by way of Harper's Ferry.

If there is an enjoyment, which is purely of the intellect, its usurpation is man's high prerogative; the sticklers for woman's "equal rights" will never establish her title to it. The mind masculine may be nourished and exercised, and attain its full size, while the heart is dwarfed and sickly;—as with twin children, one sometimes grows to man's stature, healthy and strong; and the other pines and dies in childhood. In woman, intellect and the affections are united from their birth;—like the Siamese brothers, one refuses food, which is denied its companion; and who dare peril the life of both by severing the ligament which joins them?

Ida's route was through the garden-spot of our State—the magnificent Valley, with its heaven-bathed, impregnable eyries, among which our country's Father selected a resting-place for Freedom's standard—America's ThermopylÆ, should the invader's power drive him from every other hold;—where one may travel for days, encircled by the Briarean arms, the sister ridges stretch, in amity, towards each other—each rolling its streams and clouds down to the verdant plains between;—where morning and evening, the sun marshals his crimson and gold-colored array upon the purple heights, which are coeval with him and Time; and flings shadows and hues athwart them, in his day's march, he never vouchsafes to Lowland countries;—and this region was traversed with not a thought beyond a feverish wish to be at her journey's end and rest. She stopped in Richmond but one night. Mr. Read and his daughter were out of town, and she went to a hotel. At dawn she was upon the road, with no attendant but the driver of her hack. Rachel had gone to Sunnybank a month before, to see her relations, little expecting her mistress to come for her. Ida's spirits and health declined alarmingly, now that the necessity of eluding suspicion was over. She had never been sick a day in her life; but she began to feel that mental ills may be aggravated by bodily disease. The unnatural tension had been maintained too long. When Sunnybank appeared, she was unable to raise her head to look at it. The negroes flocked out at the phenomenon of a travelling carriage in the disused avenue; and loud were their astonishment and compassion, as they recognised its occupant.

"I have come home to die, mother," said she, as they lifted her out, and fainted in their arms. In the midst of their consternation, the family pride of the faithful underlings was stubborn. "Their young mistress should not be carried to the overseer's;" and Aunt Judy, the keeper of the keys, hurried off to unlock the house doors. Ida had a cloudy remembrance of awakening in her mother's chamber, and of a gleaming fancy, that she was once more a child, aroused from a horrid, horrid dream, then her senses forsook her, and there was a wide hiatus in memory. It was night when she awoke again; she was in the same room;—a fire burned in the chimney, and cast fantastic shapes upon the ceiling. Crouched in the corner of the fire-place, was a dusky figure, whose audible breathing sounded loudly through the apartment. Her slumbers were not very profound, however, for she sprang up at the feeble call—"Rachel!"

"Miss Ida! honey! what do you want?"

"How long have I slept? my head feels so strange!"

"That's because you've been sick, honey."

"What is the matter with me?"

"Fever, dear—you caught it in them dreadful mountains, and have been laid up for four weeks. But you'll git well, now—you were out of your head 'most all the time—and the doctor says you mustn't talk."

Ida desisted, too weak to disobey. With vague curiosity, she followed her with her eyes, as she smoothed the counterpane, pushed up the bed on one side, and patted it down on the other; then she put the "chunks" together upon the hearth, and there was the clinking of spoons and glasses at a table.

"Here's your drink, Miss Ida," she said, lifting her head with a care that proved her a practised nurse. It was cool and palatable, and the heavy lids sank in natural slumber.

Mr. Grant (the overseer) and his wife had not been remiss in their duty to the sick girl. She had the best medical attendance the county afforded; and Mr. Read was written to at the commencement of the attack; the letter was unanswered—probably not received. Rachel was "sure Miss Jenny or Miss Carry would come in a minute, if they knew she was sick;" but was ignorant of the address of either. Their nursing might have been more skilful, but it could not have exceeded hers in tenderness. She took turns with Mrs. Grant in watching, but she never left the room except for her meals. She was amply repaid for her labor of love by the improvement which henceforward was apparent in her patient. Her raptures awoke no responsive harmony in Ida's bosom.

Her physician was a son of Mr. Hall, the old minister, who had gone to his rest.

"You must exert yourself, Miss Ida," said he. "Have you walked yet?"

"No, sir."

"Cannot you do it?"

"I don't know, indeed, sir."

"But, my dear child, nature cannot do everything; we must aid her. It is as binding upon us to save our own lives, as those of others."

"When they are worth saving."

"You want more powerful tonics than any I have;" said the doctor, eyeing her curiously. "I must think your case over. I command you to walk across the room twice to-day, three times to-morrow, and so on. See that she minds me, Rachel!"

Rachel gave her no peace, until she consented to sit up awhile in the easy-chair, by the window. Sunnybank was sadly changed. The buildings and enclosures were in good repair, and the fields cultivated; but the walks and shrubbery were neglected; and the garden, into which Ida was looking, overgrown with high weeds. Here and there a rose-tree struggled for a foothold, a scanty growth of yellow leaves clinging to the mossy stems; the sweetbrier still hung over the window, its long, bare arms rattling in the cold wind like fleshless bones; the tangled grass in the yard had run to seed, and piles of dead leaves were heaped against the palings. She could not see the grave-yard; she knew, though, that the willows were leafless, and how the sprays were waving in their melancholy dance, and whispering their old song—"Alone!" If alone then, how now? sick—dying, perhaps! where were those who had proudly borne the name of friend? where the sister, in whose bosom she had lain for months, and eased her sorrows and heightened her joys? the brother, she had averred, was "all kindness and truth?" and oh! where he, who had filled her heart to the brim with the rich, red wine of life, to change, in a moment, to fiery, deadly poison! She felt no resentment against him; she was too utterly broken-hearted, she thought, even if she had cause; and she had not. Her wilful self-deception had been her snare; instead of studying his heart, she had judged it by her own. Were his candor—his undisguised interest in her welfare, tokens of love, that ever seeks concealment? No! he had tried to lead her, a wayward child, to the paths of happiness; and she had seen nought but the hand which pointed the way. There was prophetic meaning in Lynn's eye, when he spoke of "the finest growth of heart and soul, which you flattered yourself were climbing heavenward, twining with strengthening tendrils around the altar of that one love!" She had been impious enough to imagine that she was imbibing a fondness for holy things; her heart had burned within her, as he talked of the loved theme; she had read the Scriptures, and prayed, in words, for light and guidance. And by the fierce rebellion which fired her breast—rebellion against—hatred of the Being, this lip service had blasphemed, she knew that she had never bowed in soul to Him; and her heart—broken, though she said it was,—trusting still—adoring still the mortal, through the great love she bore him—yet reared itself in angry defiance, saying to the Chastener,—"I will not submit!" What had she done, to be left desolate— comfortless in the spring-time of life! "He is, they tell me, merciful and all-powerful;—let Him give me back my love, and I will believe in Him." And as day by day passed, and there were no tidings of Carry or the Danas, she felt a morose complacency in the confirmation of her hard thoughts of them, and in repeating, "I am not humbled yet!"

"Uncle Will wants to know if he can come in to see you, Miss Ida," said Rachel, one Sabbath afternoon.

Ida was dressed, and rocking herself listlessly before the fire. "Let him come," she replied, languidly.

This man was her mother's steward and factotum; a hale, fine-looking negro; better educated than the generality of his caste, and devotedly pious. He brushed off a tear with the back of his hand, as his mistress greeted him. He had not seen her since she was grown, and was moved by her likeness to her mother.

"You would not have known me,—would you, uncle Will?" she asked.

"Yes ma'am; you are your mother's own child."

"Indeed! I am called like my father."

"You're like her, ma'am—in body, and like her in spirit, too I hope."

"No, Uncle Will, you cannot expect that;—she was an angel."

"Better than that, Mistis—she was a Christian!"

"And how is that better?" said Ida, surprised at the reply. "She is an angel now—is she not?"

"No ma'am; she is one of the spirits of the just made perfect; and according to my notion, that's better than to be a born seraph. Angels may praise and glorify the Lamb, but they haven't so much to be thankful for as we."

"I do not understand you. They have been happy from all Eternity; and those who have lived in this world, have had sorrow and pain and sin—'mourning all their days.'"

"They needn't, ma'am—

said Will readily—"He holds us up under whatever trouble we have; unless we bring it upon ourselves by our transgressions, and He will deliver us then, if we call to Him. The Saviour is the Christian's glory and song—He didn't die for angels."

Ida mused. "There is a question I wish to ask you," said she. "God can do as He pleases;—can He not?"

"Certainly, Mistis—'He worketh according to the counsel of His own will.'"

"And He is very pitiful and gracious?" she continued.

"Like as a father pitieth his children, Mistis."

"Then when He knows that we are miserable and sinful and helpless, why does not He take pity on us, and make us good and happy?"

"He will, ma'am."

"But He does not. He only waits for us to love anything, before He robs us of it. So far from liking to see us happy, it would seem that He grudged us the poor crumbs we picked up of ourselves."

"Because they ain't good for us, Mistis."

"Why did He allow us to take them, then? why wait, until we have tasted and found them sweet, before He snatches them away?"

"I remember, Mistis, when you were a little thing, no higher than my knee, you were mightily taken with some red peppers growing in the garden. Your mother called you away from the bed, four or five times, and ordered you not to touch them. By and by I spied you running down the walk towards them, when you thought she didn't see you; and I was starting in a hurry to fetch you back, but she stopped me. 'No, Will!' says she, 'the punishment sin brings with it, is remembered longer than a hundred warnings. She will have a useful lesson.' I was loath to have you hurt; but I had to mind her. Your lesson was right hard; for your mouth and face and hands were swelled and burning for hours. But you didn't go near the pepper-bed again. And it seems to me, ma'am, that the Almighty treats us just so. We run crazy after things, that are like the red peppers,—pretty outside, but hot as fire when we get to playing with them. He doesn't push us towards them—He lets us alone; and we are mighty apt to run to Him, after we've got a fair taste. You didn't know but your mother would whip you for disobeying her; but you went straight to her when you felt the smart."

"This does not follow, of course, uncle Will. I have tasted some hot peppers since those days; and I cannot see any mercy or use in the lesson."

"Maybe you haven't asked an explanation, ma'am."

"From whom? from you?"

"No ma'am! From Him, unto whom belong the deep things of the Almighty. And if He doesn't show you their meaning now—He will, sometime. Children are often puzzled at their parents' dealings."

As he was leaving, she observed his wistful look.

"Have you any requests to make, uncle Will? you will not ask anything unreasonable, I know."

"I hope not, ma'am. You see—we've been in the habit of holding our Sunday night prayer-meetings in the basement-room, under this. We used to meet there in your mother's time. She had the room fixed on purpose for us. When it's clear weather, in summer, we meet out-doors;—it's getting cool now—"

"And you are afraid of disturbing me; is that it?"

"Yes ma'am," said he, relieved.

"You may be quite easy as regards that. Has that room been ceiled yet?"

"No ma'am—'twould have been if—you all had stayed here."

"I am glad that it is not. I can hear your hymns—how I used to love those old tunes! Have your meeting. I wish I had no other disturbance!"

He had got into the entry, when she recalled him; and with the sad smile she had worn during their conversation, said, "Uncle Will! if you think I have not done hankering after forbidden fruit, you may pray, that I may be cured."

"I will, Mistis! God bless you!"

She had forgotten, and Will did not know, that all the services could be heard through the floor. The worshippers assembled so quietly, that she was not aware of this, until Will's tones startled her with the idea that he was in the room. He commenced the exercises by reading the fourteenth chapter of John's gospel. "Let not your hearts be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me." He offered neither comment nor explanation. He was a believer in what he called "the pure Word;" "if I can't comprehend one part," he was wont to say, "I comfort myself by thinking that there is so much that is plain even to my weak understanding." The quavering voice of an aged man led in prayer; and in spite of its verbiage and incorrect grammar, Ida listened, for it was sincere. They sang in the sweet voices for which the race is so remarkable,

with a wild, beautiful chorus, repeated each time with more emphasis and fervor—

Ida shut her eyes and lay motionless, lest she should lose a note. Forgetful of her unholy enmity to her God—her distrust of her kind—borne upon the melody her soul arose to Pisgah's top, and looked yearningly upon the "sweet fields beyond the swelling flood," heard the jubilant song of the redeemed—

A solemn hush followed; and Will said, "Let us pray." His deliberate accents quickened into animation, with the unfolding of his petitions; spurning the fetters of his imperfect speech, his thoughts clothed themselves in the language of the Divine Word; coming to a King, be adopted unconsciously the vernacular of princes. In speaking of Ida, his manner was earnestly affectionate. "We beseech Thee, O Father, to deal gently with thine handmaid, whom thou hast set over us in worldly things. Thou hast seen fit that she should bear the yoke in her youth, hast made her to possess wearisome nights, and days of vanity; hast mingled her bread with tears, and her drink with weeping; Thou hast taken from her father and mother,—the hope of her soul, and the desire of her eyes; it is the Lord's doings, and it is marvellous in our eyes and in hers. Lighten her eyes, Our Father! though weeping has endured for a night, Thou hast promised that joy shall come in the morning; tell her, that no affliction for the present seemeth joyous, but grievous; but that Thou wilt make it work out for her an eternal weight of glory; that whom Thou lovest Thou chasteneth, and upon Thy Blessed Son Thou didst lay the afflictions and iniquities of us all. May her hungry soul run to Him, from the far country in which she has been living, and may He heal her broken bones, give her the oil of gladness for mourning—the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."

The hot, dry channel was broken up, and tears flowed in plenteous measure. From the softening soul sprang her first real prayer. "Oh! be my Father and Comforter!"

When Rachel awoke in the morning, she saw that her mistress had unbarred the shutters of the window by her bed, and was reading. Her face had a still deeper shade of gloom; but the attached girl drew a favorable augury from this mark of interest in anything, except her own thoughts. The book was a mother's gift—a Bible; she had read it with tolerable regularity for the giver's sake, but she found herself now lamentably ignorant of its contents. She read of the unapproachable purity of the Immaculate, of judgment and justice; denunciation of the wicked, and the "fearful looking for of vengeance" that remained to rebellious children; in vain she searched it for a message to her—a promise she could apply. Her alarm augmented, as the fruitlessness of her endeavors became apparent. The life she had lightly esteemed was inestimably dear, as she realised what eternity was; and her heart was still with fear at the thought of the uncertain tenure by which she held it. In times past she would have blushed at these shakings of spirit; now she could not banish them. She would not be left alone an instant; she was afraid to sleep, lest she should not awake in time. She had said, "what evil have I done?" she saw now that she had committed evil, and that continually; as she beheld "idolatry, hatred, variance, emulation, wrath, envyings" in the same enumeration with monstrous vices—a catalogue which brings to our ears the warring clash of Pandemonium, rendered more horribly discordant by contrast with the gentle music of "Love, joy, peace, long-suffering."

In angry despair she threw the volume aside; but tortured conscience drove her to it again. "I will be a Christian," was her primal resolve,—as the terrors of the law flamed before her—"I must be!" and a week of labor and agony ended in a total sinking of hope, and an exhausted cry, "I cannot!"

It was a calm Sabbath in the Indian Summer, and her chair was wheeled to the door. The "summer's late, repentant smile" shone fondly upon the landscape; the russet fields, the dismantled forests, the swift-rolling river.

She had seen it look just so, often; when the breeze played among the child's curls, and lent a quicker bound to a light heart—but faded in body—prematurely old in spirit—she saw no beauty in earth—had no treasure in heaven. Her Bible was upon her knees; she turned the pages indolently, and was saying, for the hundredth time, "No hope!" when a passage appeared to start up from the page. Could it have been there while she sought it carefully and with tears? "The Lord hath called thee as a woman, forsaken and grieved in spirit; and as a wife of youth, when thou wast refused, saith my God. For a small moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I gather thee; in a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy upon thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer. * * * * Oh! thou afflicted, tossed with tempests, and not comforted! behold, I will lay thy stones with fair colors, and lay thy foundations with sapphires!"

As Will passed under the window on his way to Church, he was arrested by an unusual sound. No one was visible, but his heart and eyes ran over, as he recognised the voice that sang softly—