The trembling which mingled with her transport, was so foreign to Ida's ardent temperament, that she doubted sometimes, if she had indeed found peace. But as her filial love and trust strengthened with time, she rejoiced with more hope. Much of the old leaven was left; her imperious temper still chafed at restraint, and she was disheartened at the discovery, that the loveliest of the "Blessed Three" graces was most difficult to practise. She leaned upon a Saviour's arm, and was willing to walk in the ways of His appointment, but the weak heart pleaded that He would not send her back into the world. Sweet Sunnybank, rich in associations;—with its peaceful duties and holy enjoyments, must be more favorable to the advancement of her new life;—she hoped against hope, that she might be permitted to remain. A letter from her guardian settled the point. With laconic terseness, he declared the thing "impossible. By her father's will, the estate was hers, when she was of age; until then, no preparatory step could be taken." Her scheme had been to invite a sister of Mrs. Grant, an excellent woman, now dependent upon her brother-in-law, to reside with her, in the capacity of housekeeper and companion; and leaving the control of her finances in Mr. Read's hands, to devote herself to the improvement of her servants and poor neighbors. It was a praiseworthy enterprise, and it cost her a sharp pang to resign it, and prepare for the return, her guardian pressed, "as desirable and proper." Her trunks were packed; and she had come in from a tour of the negro cabins, and a visit to her mother's grave, to spend the last twilight in the room in which she was born—in which her mother had died. The November blast howled in the chimney;—here it was the music of early days;—in Richmond, it would be so dreary!

She was not gloomy, although the firelight glistened upon cheeks wet with tears;—she was not going away, as she had come—alone; still she was sad at quitting her retreat, and in the prospect of the temptations awaiting her. There would be trials, too—trials of faith and patience and charity—and trials of feeling—what if she should be found wanting! But a whisper tranquilised her—"Fear not—I am with thee!" Mrs. Grant opened the door. She held a lamp whose rays blinded Ida's tender eyes.

"A gentleman to see you, Miss Ida,—and as there was no fire in the drawing-room, I've asked him into the dining-room;" announced the dame, who was remarkable rather for sterling goodness, than for grace and discretion. The door of communication was wide open, and Ida had no alternative but to walk directly into the adjoining apartment. Charley Dana met her, ere she had advanced three steps beyond the doorway. He was so shocked at her altered appearance that he could not speak at once, but stood, pressing her hands in his, and gazing into her face with inexpressible solicitude and tenderness. She must make an exertion.

"This is kind, Charley! Am I to flatter myself that you have turned out of your way to see me?"

"No. I have looked neither to the right nor to the left. I came by the most direct route from Richmond. Sit down—you are not able to stand—and give an account of yourself. What in the name of all that is ridiculous and outrageous, brought you here alone, and has kept you here until the middle of the winter?"

"Not so bad as that, Charley! It is only the last month of Autumn. I came, because I did not want to go North, and was pining for a sight of the old place; and have been sick ever since. But tell me of yourself. When did you return, and why have not you written to me?"

"That is what I call 'iced!'" said Charley, with a laugh that sounded like former times. "Haven't I sent letters to every post-office in the Union, and not received a line in answer, since you parted company with Arthur and Carry? I arrived at home, ten days ago. Mr. Read 'presumed' you were 'yet in the country, and would be back when you were ready:' John and Jenny were in the dark; had written and inquired to no purpose: daily dispatches were pouring in from Arthur, certifying that Carry was nearly deranged with anxiety. Yesterday, I met Mr. Read, who told me you had been 'indisposed,' but would be down shortly. I asked your address, and here I am!"

"You could not be more welcome anywhere; but how unaccountable that your letters miscarried!"

"Easily explained! I stopped down the road, at a house, half-tavern, half-store, where I espied 'Post Office,' painted upon a shingle, hung out of a dirty window; and inquired the name of the place. 'Thompsonburg;' said the P.M. 'Burg,' indeed! 'I thought there was an office in this neighborhood, called 'Oakland;'" said I.

"'Oh! that's discontinued more than a year ago;' answered he. ''Twas at the Cross-roads below.'"

Simple solution of a mystery which had led her to doubt her best earthly friends! Charley looked at her intently.

"'Indisposition,' forsooth! Why, I'll be hanged—"

"No you wont, Charley! Don't say so."

"Shot, then! if I am sure that I am not talking to a spirit! You've been to Death's door. What made you sick?"

"Oh! a variety of causes."

"Which means, it's no business of mine to inquire. All I have to say is, that your friends would not have treated you, as you have them. If I had died in Missouri, I would have left 'good-bye,' and a lock of my hair for you. You might have departed this life twenty times, and we been none the wiser."

"How quarrelsome you are! I'll never do so again, if you'll forgive me this once."

"Forgive! I have nothing to forgive—you were privileged to do as you pleased;—only, if you had said adieu to the land of the living, it would have been a gratification to us to know it."

Ida laughed out so merrily that Mrs. Grant, who was superintending the setting of the tea-table, raised her spectacles to look at her, and smiled gratifiedly. She and her husband sat at the table, and the guest's "sociable ways" ingratiated him with them, before the meal was half over. They retired with the waiters, and Charley, dropping his bantering tone, established himself for a "quiet coze." It was strange that he should be the first confidant of Ida's change of heart;—he, whom men styled careless—sometimes "scoffer."

He did not scoff now;—he paid diligent heed to her recital, and when it was finished—"From my soul, I congratulate you!" he exclaimed. "Would to Heaven, that I too believed!"

"You may;" said Ida, timidly.

"You do not know the thickness of the crust around my heart, Ida;—the unbelief, and ingratitude and worldliness. I can battle with men, and wear a bravado mask; but I do not forget that I have a soul, and that it must be attended to. Whether I will ever do it, I cannot say. I think I must be the most hardened of sinners;—Lynn's death would have subdued a less obdurate heart;—and do you know that, while thoroughly persuaded that it was a judgment aimed full at me—for he was my dearest friend, and I felt his loss, most of all who mourned him—I hated the Power which had dealt the blow, and scorned angrily the presumption, that I could be forced into measures!"

"You were not more wicked than I was. There is not a truer sentence in the Bible, than that the 'carnal mind is enmity against God.' Ah! Charley! if we loved holy things more! It is so mortifying to find our thoughts straying away from these subjects, when we are most desirous of contemplating them!"

"That is the fault of Old Adam—the 'body of death,' Paul writes of;" replied he. "I am not much of a Bible scholar, but it strikes me he says something in the next verse of a Deliverer, 'who giveth us the victory.' Why are Christians ever low-spirited, I wonder."

And poor Ida upbraided herself with the same query, many times within the next few days. She bore the partings and the journey better than Charley had feared she would. He did his best to save her pain and fatigue, but he saw, with secret reverence, that she was supported by a stronger Friend.

"We are almost there!" said he, letting down the carriage-window, upon the afternoon of their second day's travel.

Ida leaned out, and beheld the spires and roofs of the city. She was unprepared for the effect the sight had upon her. Recollections of her years of loneliness; the trials of her home-life; the one friendship of her school days; a brother's fondness, and his doom; her love and its blight—rushed upon her with overwhelming force—she fell back upon the cushions, and wept aloud. She had not entirely recovered her composure, when they stopped at Mr. Read's door. Josephine hardly knew the wasted figure, Charley carried, rather than led into the house; and Mr. Read was, for once, shocked out of his dignity.

"Why! Mr. Dana! Miss Ida! bless my soul and body!" was his uncharacteristic exclamation.

Charley was in no humour for trifling, or he would have said, "Amen!"

"Miss Ida's indisposition was not so unimportant as you supposed, you see, sir;" said he sarcastically. "Thanks to the kind attentions of her country friends, she is now convalescent."

"Hush, Charley! please!" said a distressed whisper from the sofa, where he had laid her. "Mr. Grant wrote to you, Mr. Read;" said she, aloud; "but as you were travelling, we doubted whether you received the letter."

"I did not;" he answered, the flush going off from his brow.

"I was so carefully nursed, I did not require other attention;" she continued. "I should have regretted it, if your summer's enjoyment had been interrupted needlessly. Dr. Hall, and Mr. and Mrs. Grant were untiring in their kindness; and Rachel here, ought to have a diploma to practice medicine."

It was a maxim with Mr. Read, that for every mischance, blame must rest somewhere; and Ida, having exculpated him, he could not do less than return the compliment, by pitching it back upon her.

"I do not presume to lecture you, Miss Ross; but you will admit that this freak of yours was one of unsurpassed imprudence. You left my roof under the protection of those, whom I considered fit guardians for a young lady." Charley made a movement to speak; but Ida's imploring glance restrained him. "I hear nothing of you for a long time; and you write, at last, from an uninhabited country-house, begging permission to take up your abode there. I refuse the preposterous request, and you are brought home reduced and weakened by a severe illness, of which I have not been informed. I cannot be responsible for what the world will say to all this, Miss Ross!"

The rack could not have silenced Charley now. "I will tell you what the world's opinion is, sir; and hold you responsible for your own words. 'The world' has said, in my hearing, that the guardian, who loses sight of a ward—a member of his family—for six months, without being apprised of, or inquiring into her locality and welfare, is unworthy of his trust. And if I describe his reception of an invalid, who might have perished through neglect, for all he knew or cared—'the world,' sir, will declare indignantly, that he is a disgrace to society and mankind! I have nothing more to say at present. If you take exception to my liberty of speech, you can call on me, and relieve your mind. Miss Ida, let me recommend to you to retire; Mr. Read will finish his lecture to me—good afternoon, Miss Read. Sir, I have the honor to bid you good-day!"

Josephine burst forth with a torrent of invective: which Ida did not stay to hear; nor did she see either of them again for two days. She was not well enough to go below; and they avoided her chamber.

Mrs. Dana called that evening. Ida was preparing for bed; and she supplanted Rachel as maid and nurse. Her softest, most nimble of hands undressed the tired, dispirited girl; smoothed the pillows; and gave her a composing draught; and with her kiss warm upon her lips, her pitying eyes watching over her, and a prayer of thankfulness at her heart, Ida fell asleep.

She learned to expect a daily visit from this dear friend; and rarely looked in vain. At her third coming she brought a note from Charley. "He was happy to state;" he said; "that the skirmish which had excited her uneasiness, had arrived at a bloodless issue. Mr. Read and himself had had an interview; he had apologised for using language to him, in his own house, which he considered himself justifiable in employing anywhere else; and Mr. Read excused his harshness to her, by representing the excitement of surprise and alarm, under which he was laboring at the time. It was agreed the matter should stop there—that is;" wrote Charley; "that his bugbear, the world, shall not get hold of it."

Josephine had received her orders; for she carried her work into Ida's chamber, that day, and sat one hour, to a minute, never opening her lips, save in monosyllables to the questions Ida forced herself to ask. Abandoning seclusion so soon as she had sufficient strength, the latter joined the family at meals, and remained longer in their society than she was wont to do formerly; and if her hope of eventually conquering their dislike did not increase, her meekness and patience did. She had occasion for it all. Josephine was quick to discover that she was happier in her affliction and debility, than she was in health and prosperity; and when the truth came to light, her natural malignity to the cause, and her hatred of its humble professor triumphed in the fiendish anticipation of how she could, by deriding one, wound the other. She would have descried soil upon an angel's robe. Ida was a young Christian, contending with the manifold disadvantages of temper, habit and irreligious associates; and her wily assailant was not passive long for lack of weapons and opportunity for her warfare. Any symptom of a convalescent's irritability; the utterance of a taste or opinion, which did not tally with her standard of consistency, was marked and laid by for use; and no complaisance or concession on Ida's part, moved her purpose. Mr. Read paid his pew-rent, went to church once every fine Sunday, and had a pleasant impression that by so doing, he was "keeping along;" paying interest as it were, upon the debt, sanguine that when the distant pay-day arrived, he would be able, by one prodigious effort, to discharge the principal. He "hated cant, because it was silly and useless" and if he did not chime in his daughter's slurs upon religion, and the conduct of Christians, he never rebuked her by word or sign. Watchfully, prayerfully, Ida strove to keep her feet in the path, and by no misstep or fall, to cast obloquy upon the name she loved.

Anna Talbot, a friendly, good-natured girl—her brother's superior in sense and feeling, was a near neighbor; and she ran in directly after breakfast one morning, full of a ball to which she was invited. Josephine had a ticket also, and was wishing for her—she must consult her about her dress.

"Ma has bought me a lovely white silk," said Anna. "I am to wear sprigged illusion over it—but oh! I was so disappointed! I wanted silver-sprigged, you know, like that Miss What's-her-name, from Philadelphia, wore to Mrs. Porter's party—but although I ransacked every store in the city, I could not find a piece. What will you get, Josey?"

"I have not quite determined."

"Do let us dress alike! There is another pattern of silk at P——'s."

"Well! I will look at it. What head-dress?" inquired Josephine.

"Oh! that's another novelty! I saw two darling little loves of wreaths down town—rose-buds and lilies-of-the-valley—pure white. I asked Mrs. V—— to lay them aside until to-day. I thought of you."

The "darling little loves" were pronounced au fait.

"What ornaments?" said Josephine, who was in her element.

Anna made a gesture of despair. "There's the trouble! I have nothing but those rubies, and they will not do at all. I dislike to go without any; but it cannot be helped."

"Pearls would correspond well with your dress," observed Ida.

"Ah, yes! my dear! and if I had a pearl fishery, I would draw upon my divers forthwith;—unfortunately I have not."

"Are you certain?" returned Ida, smiling. "Imagine me a diver. I have a neat set, which is at your service, if you will honor me by wearing it."

"Oh! you dearest of girls!" exclaimed Anna. "But you want them yourself—I beg your pardon—I forgot you were in mourning;—but your black is not too deep for ornaments."

"But her odor of sanctity is too strong," said Josephine. "She has renounced the pomps and vanities you and I love, Anna, and 'put on the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.' How do you reconcile it with your conscience, to let your pearls attend a ball, Ida? How much scouring and praying will cleanse them again for your use?"

"Oh! I will get you or Anna to air them for me, once in a while, and trust to time to purify them," said Ida, willing to pass it off as a joke.

"Do you really think it sinful to go to balls?" asked Anna, wonderingly.

"I could not do it innocently," replied Ida.

"Why not? you used to like them as well as the rest of us."

"For pity's sake! no sermonising!" rudely interrupted Josephine. "I can show you the root of her piety in two words. Don't you remember a certain gentleman, whose handsome face and saintly smile set off his religion so well?"

"Oh!" laughed Anna; "but I thought he liked her very well as she was."

"Nothing like making assurance doubly sure!" answered the other. "Pity he did not return to town this winter. Love's labor is lost."

"Why, Ida! what a flirt you are!" cried Anna. "When everybody says you are engaged to Mr. Dana!"

"Everybody is wrong, then," said Ida, calmly.

"Everybody is right!" contradicted Josephine. "She reads in her Bible, that she 'must love all men;' and her being in mourning for one beau, and dying with love for another, are no impediments to her engagement with a third. This is Platonism with a vengeance."

"Fie! Josephine!" said Anna, perceiving by Ida's face, that the pleasantry, as she still thought it, was going too far. "You know, as well as I do, that Mr. Holmes was only a friend. Mrs. Dana is in black for him too—it is as reasonable to say that she was in love with him."

"She may have been, for anything I know to the contrary;" retorted Josephine, growing more and more insolent. "I don't pretend to understand the morals of 'the clique.'"

"I am going up stairs, Anna," said Ida, "and will send you the pearls. If they please you, you are welcome to them, whenever you wish them."

Anna pulled her down. "Don't go! I want to talk with you. You must not regard Josephine's nonsense—it is only a foolish jest."

"One, which must not be repeated!" said Ida. "I may not notice an insult to myself, but if my friends are slandered, I must defend them."

"Defend them, as long and loud as you choose;" replied Josephine, retaining her disagreeable smile and tone. "Recriminate too, if you like. It is but politic in you to fight for your patrons. Aha! that flash of the eye was Christian-like! Did you never observe, Anna, that when the 'brethren' are wrought up to the belligerent point, they are the fiercest of combatants?"

Ida hurried up stairs—threw herself upon the bed, and cried bitterly; unobservant of Rachel's presence.

"Oh! Father! pity me! I am so weak and wicked!" she prayed.

Rachel went out boiling with rage.

"More of that Evil's work! Hope I may be forgiven for saying sech a word, but if she didn't come from the bottomless ditch, I should jist like to be reformed whar she was made! I know mighty well whar she'll go. I ain't a goin' to stand it! Miss Ida shan't be terrified forever and ever. I'll speak my mind to Miss Jenny, before I'm a day older; maybe Mars' John can get her away from this dreadful place. Miss Ida'd never forgive me; but she needn't know nothin' about my tellin'!"

"Miss Jenny" heard her with indignant astonishment; but giving her no encouragement to proceed with her tale, or to hope for an amelioration of her mistress' condition, merely said she was sorry she could do nothing for her; and advised her to imitate Ida's prudence and silence; counsel which confirmed Rachel's skepticism in "white folks' friendship." Ida thought Charley kinder than ever, that evening. If he had known the severity of her day's discipline, he could not have been more tender and consolatory. His inattention to Josephine, who also had visitors, troubled her somewhat; but she had the comforting reflection that she was not to blame for it. The day of the ball, he took her and Mrs. Dana to ride. They called at the residence of a country friend, to whose green-house Charley had the entrÉe; and he improved his privilege by culling a bouquet of Camelias, tea-roses and orange blossoms "for the belle of the ball;" he told his hostess. When they were again in the carriage, he handed them to Ida, with a laugh. "I have no idea of going to the ball, and you would be the belle, if you were to attend; so there was no fibbing, was there?" The flowers were beautiful, and at this season, very rare; and Ida bore them home carefully, and put them in water in her room. They were sweet company; she could only watch, and pet, and talk to them the rest of the day.

Mr. Read was uncommonly jocose at supper time.

"Make yourself pretty, Josey," said he, lighting his lamp; "you don't have me to escort you every evening."

Josephine looked after him with a sneer. "A mighty honor! If he had a spark of generosity or politeness, he would have bought me a bouquet, if they do ask such enormous prices. I have a good mind not to go, I shall feel so mean without one."

Ida said she regretted it; and she did feel for her. She knew, that to party-goers, these little things are no trifles; she had seen a girl dull or sulky for an entire evening, because of a deficiency of this sort.

"I wish I could help her," she was saying to herself, as she returned to her apartment. The aroma that stole upon her senses said, "you can." She was no heroine, for she stood over her flowers, and doubted and pondered for a good half hour, before her wavering mind rested upon its pivot; and then a tear bedewed a Camelia's spotless bosom, as she emptied the vase, and saying aloud, "If thine enemy thirst, give him drink," set about arranging them anew. Her Christmas rose-tree was hanging with buds, which, on the morrow, would be blossoms, but she despoiled it of its nodding pearls; and adding geraniums and citronaloes, completed as tasteful a bouquet, as ever bloomed under the fingers of a fashionable florist.

She gave it to Josephine, when she came into the parlor to survey her full-length figure in the tall glass.

"Oh! how lovely!" she exclaimed involuntarily; then recovering herself, said coldly, "They are pretty;" and returned them.

"They are for you," said Ida.

"Who sent them?"

"They were presented to me; and as their beauty is wasted upon the 'desert air' of my chamber, I shall be obliged to you to display them."

Josephine would have rejected the generous offer, if there had been the remotest chance of another; but it was late, and she could not go bouquetless.

"Who gave them to you?" she asked.

Ida paused, then replied, "Mr. Dana."

"He will know them; I had rather go without any."

"No danger of that! he will not be there." Her patience was nearly spent. Josephine accepted the gift with a very bad grace; she was awkward and embarrassed, and what appears more improbable, a little ashamed. Mr. Read was attired with scrupulous neatness and elegance, and looked ten years younger than he really was. Ida "presumed" to tell him so, and was recompensed by a bland smile. She had done her duty, perhaps more, and she did not repent of her self-denial; but something of the desolate feeling of "lang-syne" fell upon her, as she was left, sole tenant of the parlor and the house. Weak and weary, she sighed for human society and affection. It was a darkened hour; clouded by self-doubtings, mournful memories and forebodings. The piano was open; she had not touched it since her arrival at home; but she went to it now; only plaintive tunes came to her fingers; she played fitfully, as her mood disposed her; the music was the voice of her thoughts; and she sang to a rambling, irregular measure—

"My poor child! are you then so sad?"

She knew the hand upon her drooping head before he spoke; and with a prayer for support, that calmed her fluttering heart, arose to greet him.

"Am I forgiven for my intrusion?" said he, leading her to a chair. "The front door was ajar, and hearing your music, I entered without ringing."

"Freely pardoned! Have you been in town long?"

"Since five o'clock this afternoon. I am on my way to the south with Annie. She is ordered to winter in Florida. Go with us—will you not? Charley supped with us; and Annie proposed this plan on hearing of your feeble health. She will wait until you are ready if you comply."

"I am very grateful for her kindness; but I cannot avail myself of it."

"Are there any 'propriety scruples?'" inquired he, smiling. "You will be her companion; and the most fastidious cannot object to the escort of a brother, and—an engaged man."

She was fortified against even this. Her arch glance hid the heart-pang faithfully. "Where is she?" she questioned.

"Lelia? at her father's house in S——. Here is her counterfeit." He unclasped a locket.

"It is like Carry!" said Ida; then she scanned it long and earnestly. She was very beautiful; with large, blue eyes; and a cherry mouth, just parted in a smile; and shining hair, folded above the smooth forehead—fair enough for him! and as she raised her eyes to say how lovely she was, she beheld herself in the glass opposite—wan, hollow-eyed and sallow—and felt how presumptuous—how reckless in its folly, her dream had been! He shut the spring, without looking at it himself, (it was delicate and considerate to avoid the comparison!) and making no reply to her praises of his betrothed, began to speak of the bond of fellowship, formed between themselves, since their parting. She had been discouraged by her inability to talk of what was ever in her mind; had distrusted the genuineness of her faith, because her tongue faltered in telling of the love which had redeemed her. He entered fully into her feelings; and she surprised herself by the freedom the consciousness of this afforded her. He told her of his difficulties and temptations and conflicts, often anticipating what she would have related of her own experience. So well did his counsels and comfort meet the inquiries and wants of her spirit, that she debated within herself whether he were not sent by heaven—a special messenger in her hour of trial.

"Say on!" said he, encouragingly, as he caught her eye.

"I was about to ask if you believed in what are termed minute or particular Providences."

"As in my existence! even to the numbering of the hairs of any head. You have not been troubling your brain with quibblings upon this subject, I hope?"

"No; but I have heard it disputed by very good people, who confuse me by their 'free agency,' and 'accountability,' and 'decrees.'"

"Discard theories, and eschew arguments. Let your Bible and your common sense be your teachers. As a machinist fashions the minutest cog of the smallest wheel, as carefully as the mighty lever, the main power,—so the Supreme Governor looks to the balance of the tiniest atom in His universe."

"Then," said Ida; "I do not commit presumption when I trace my Father's hand in every-day events; when I lift up my soul in thankfulness for a pleasant, or ennobling thought, a visit, a gift, an act of friendship, which has made me better or happier—or say 'Thy will be done?' in the petty trials, which annoy, rather than afflict us!"

"It is your privilege and duty. The introductory sentence of the Lord's Prayer is sufficient to inculcate this truth. 'Our Father—' is not a father's care constant? He says moreover—'we must become as little children.' Who relies more than a child? 'As thy day is, so shall thy strength be;—' no matter where, or how we are placed, God will give us the requisite strength; and as our positions are changing every moment, does not this say that He will be with us every moment, and order the success of whatever we attempt, by the amount of strength He imparts? And again, 'not a sparrow falls to the ground without your Father.' Nothing which God does is small, and He 'orders all things according to the counsel of His own will.' Then nothing is insignificant, because God orders everything. Our actions may appear trivial; but do they not assume a terrible importance, when we learn that even our fleeting words are to be the data of our judgment, at the last day? A few good people doubt the doctrine of 'special Providences;' but is it not better for us to believe what God says of his character, than to determine what character he ought to have? If He says He is the God of 'the hairs of our heads—' of 'sparrows' and lilies of the field—all we have to do, is to take His word for truth, and act accordingly. His attention to small things is as conclusive a proof of His Divinity, as to great ones. It has been well said, that 'man cannot comprehend the Infinitely great, nor the Infinitely small.' But I weary you."

"You do not—I am interested and instructed. I am but a babe in leading-strings; so weak and ignorant, it terrifies me to think of the possibility that I will be obliged to take a single step without holding my Father's hand."

"That is what none of us are called upon to do, Ida. 'I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' 'Even there shall thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me.' We could not stand alone an instant, were this 'right hand' withdrawn."

"Charley, who strews many pearls among the rubbish he scatters abroad, once set me to thinking seriously—I hope, not unprofitably, by wondering why Christians were ever low-spirited," said Ida. "It seems to me that they would not be, if their confidence in God were implicit and abiding; but I am often sad—almost desponding."

"To-night, for instance," said Mr. Lacy, cheerfully. "'This kind goeth not out, but by prayer;' and you must not be cast down, that you cannot, in a month, overcome a habit of years. Humanly speaking, you have had much to embitter your lot;—but as we can, in reviewing our past lives, see many events which, Janus-like, approached us frowningly, now changed to smiles of blessing, ought we not, with this attestation of experience to the truth of His promises, to trust Him in the dark ways we now tread?"

"Poor Lynn!" her full eyes overflowed. "How frequently I am reminded of his—

"Let us hope that the Everlasting arms received him," said Mr. Lacy. "I feared to speak of him to you, Ida; knowing, as I do, that upon a heart like yours, such a blow must have left indelible traces. You have not—you never will forget him, but can you not believe that this, too, was intended for your good?"

"I do—although at the time, it seemed very hard that from my meagre list of friends, one so necessary to my happiness, should be stricken. I may never meet another, who will give me affection so fond, yet so disinterested."

"Disinterested! that is a term not generally applied to love which leads to betrothal."

"Mr. Lacy!" ejaculated Ida, astonished. "But no! you knew us too well? did Lynn never tell you—" she stopped.

"No, I first heard of your engagement from a third person; you confirmed it, subsequently."

"What do you mean? you are under a strange misapprehension. I never was betrothed to Lynn; he never thought of me but as a friend."

"Ida!" his tone was stern. "What are you saying? Have you forgotten the night you left my side for his, upon seeing his dejection—the long promenade, and his reproaches for what he deemed—wrongfully, as I am now assured—was coquetry in you? I was told then, what I had heard, without heeding before, that you were plighted lovers. So confirmed was I in my disbelief that I would have declared it, in defiance of the proofs presented to me, had I not overheard by accident a portion of your conversation. He said—(I remember it well!)—'I have loved you as man never loved woman before—have believed you pure and high-minded. If I thought that the despicable coquetry you hint at, had caused you to insist upon the concealment of our engagement—' I lost the rest. Is not this enough? must I harrow your feelings by recurring to your appeal to me to save him from crime and death for your sake;—or to the awful hour when you were summoned to receive his last sigh? Oh! Ida! Ida! I have trusted in your truth—do not shake my faith now!"

There was bewilderment, but not falsehood in the eyes that sustained his rebuking glance. "I have spoken the truth. The sentence which misled you, was the repetition of a remark made to another;—the whisper in his dying hour, a message to the same. To me—I repeat—he was a brother, devoted and true to the last—but nothing more."

His lips were ashy white;—his self-command had utterly deserted him.

"I have been terribly deceived!" he said, rising and pacing the floor. "Ida!" he resumed, coming back to her side, "we have spoken of the mysterious dealings of Providence. I did not think my trust would be tested so soon. You have unwittingly awakened a pain, I thought was stilled forever, and justice to you, and to myself, requires me to endure it yet awhile longer. We are friends—we can never be anything nearer—but if I were the husband, instead of the betrothed of another, I should feel bound to clear my honor from the aspersion my conduct has cast upon it. My actions—my language, must have convinced you that I loved you;—you were ignorant of the mistake into which I had fallen—what interpretation have you put upon my course, since? You did not misconstrue my attentions then—tell me—am I a knave—a hypocrite in your sight?"

"Never!" said she, lifting a face, as pale as his own. "My confidence in your friendship and integrity has not swerved, and there lives not one who will pray for your happiness with more sincerity; who is more thankful for your noble renunciation of personal feeling to advance her welfare. We are friends! we will forget everything but this."

She was standing before him; and while speaking, laid her hand in his. He gazed silently into the countenance, so elevated in its look of heroic self-devotion.

"You have chosen one far more worthy of you than I could ever have been;—you will be very happy together. I hope to meet her some day, and love her, as all must love the beautiful and good. There is a consolation those friends have at parting, whose home is not here;—that, although we walk in different pathways on earth, they all lead to our abiding-place—Heaven." With an uncontrollable impulse, he drew her to him, and pressed his lips to her brow! He was gone! and the poor human heart bled from the slow torture to which it had been put. He had not dreamed of it,—had not suspected, when her steady, sweet tones told him of their separate pathways, that her soul was reaching, in intense yearnings, towards the lightsome way, where flowers sprang beneath his steps, and shuddering at the tomb-like chill of that which echoed her lonely foot-fall. He was gone! and the weeping eyes which sought Heaven, showed from whence she had derived the supernatural strength which had borne her through the trying interview;—and with the cry of unspeakable sorrow that succeeded his departure, arose a petition for larger supplies. It was granted. She wept still; but not in wretchedness. Solemn, pure resolutions were growing up beneath the waves of grief. The destruction of this hope—-the dearest in a woman's heart, was the fall of a proud plant,—the garden's pride—in its matured beauty. Buds and blooms wilt and perish upon the stalk, but from the laden seed-vessels are showered far and wide germs that shall rejoice many hearts with the sweetness and loveliness their parent garnered for one.