It was so cold and damp in the morning, that Rachel, in virtue of her nursely prerogatives, forbade her mistress' rising before breakfast. Ida was not averse to keeping her room. She wished to achieve another victory over herself before meeting Josephine. A suspicion of her agency in Mr. Lacy's deception ripened, upon reflection, into a certainty, her love of justice prompted her to banish. But a hundred incidents occurred to her memory. Especially, she recollected that Josephine had accosted him, directly after she had taken Lynn's arm in the Fair-room, that she was still with him at the close of the evening, and that he had looked sorrowfully—reproachfully at her. She had no just conception of the girl's total destitution of principle, nor of her envy of herself; but she knew her to be weak, vain and spiteful; and against her will, she had to credit a conclusion, she judged uncharitable. She did not desire to ascertain its truth; it could make no difference at this late date. Another perplexity assailed her;—should she tell Josephine of the visit she had had? Should she hear of it from some other source, or by a direct inquiry of herself, whether she had spent the evening alone—what conjectures might not be formed as to the motive of her silence? She was deliberating thus, when the door flew back, and Josephine walked in. Ida, nervously excitable, started from her pillow; and clasped her hands in speechless alarm at the suddenness and disorder of her appearance. She was frightfully pallid, and her eyes were inflamed with weeping and rage.

Locking the door, she advanced to the foot of the bed, and grasped the post tightly, as if to brace herself for some desperate act. Ida could not stir, and the two regarded each other for a moment without a word. Josephine was torn by some fearful conflict: Ida had never seen her eyes dimmed by a tear; and when the struggle for language ended in a tempestuous burst of weeping, the thought flashed over her, that she was bereft of reason.

"Josephine! what has happened?" she could scarcely utter.

Josephine dashed off the thick-coming drops.

"Happened! yes! it will not matter to you, who can leave this abominable place in two years—or to-morrow, if you choose to have your own way. I am to stay, and be pushed about, and lectured and ruled by a hideous vixen! I could kill her, and him too!"

"Are you raving? Who is it?"

"His wife! the dotard! the foolish old greybeard!"

"Josephine! you cannot mean your father!"

"I do mean him; and he is a doting fool, to be playing the sighing lover at his age—and to whom? A baby-faced chit, just out of her teens! a spoiled doll of a thing whose prattle and tricks have addled his brains—if he ever had any. I won't stay here! I will beg my bread in the street first!"

"But he is not married yet; you may be mistaken. How did your hear it?"

"From himself, on our way to that detestable ball. I wish he, and she, and it, were at the bottom of the Dead Sea! He commenced 'Josey, my dear!'—Oh, the deceitful villain!"

"Josephine!" said Ida, shuddering.

"He is! and I will say it! 'Josey'—said he, simpering and giggling like a shame-faced school-boy.—'Can you guess why I consented to your having that dress?"

"Because I liked it—I suppose, sir."

"'No, my dear;—I had my reasons for wishing you to look well to-night. I expect to meet a friend at the ball, to whom I shall introduce you.'

"Who is it, sir? may I ask?" said I.

"He giggled and winked—oh! so disgustingly! 'Did you imagine that I was idle all the time I was in the country? You were flirting at the Springs, and I concluded to try my hand. You have too much care upon you, for so young a person; what do you say to my engaging a 'help?'

"A housekeeper would be a convenience;" answered I.

"'A ball is a proper place to hunt up housekeepers!' said he, blazing out. 'No airs, miss! you understand me! I am to be married in a fortnight, and you may as well take it quietly—or it will be worse for you.'

"It is too late for him to brow-beat me, and so I said: and that I would worry his and her life out, as surely as she crossed this threshold—that he had made himself the laughing-stock of the city—had been taken in by a designing creature who wanted his money—for he had lost his good looks and his senses too, it appeared—"

"'If you say another word,' said he, griping my arm—there! you see the bruise! 'I will put you out of the carriage, and you may die before I will give you a cent to save you from starvation. You will see this lady to-night, and if you do not treat her with becoming politeness, you don't go home with me, nor after me, either!'

"You never saw such a tiger! When we were there, I scowled at every dried-up old maid, who looked as if she were husband-hunting. I had picked out one, with a skinny neck and corkscrew curls, when up steps our youthful lover, with a lady hanging on his arm;—he, all honey and smiles—she, cool and bold. 'Miss Copeland—let me make you acquainted with my daughter!' I wanted to strike her in the face, but his eye was too threatening;—so I choked myself with a pretty speech, and she bowed condescendingly. I gave her one look, though, when he did not see—and she glared back at me. I'll warrant there'll be no love lost!"

"But what is she like? She may be an agreeable companion," said Ida.

"Ida Ross! I didn't come to you for canting consolation! I was too full to keep my fury to myself—and I hate her rather more than I do you. This is why I have told you about the wretch. 'Companion!' I'll be company for her! She had better be burned alive, than come here. She will wish she had been, or my name is not Read!"

"But you can escape by marriage;" suggested Ida, who perceived that the girl was suffering, and pitied her, while she trembled at her frenzy.

"Say that again, and I will murder you!" retorted Josephine, in the white heat of concentrated passion. "You will make me remember that our old scores are not quite settled yet."

"I have no scores against you;" said Ida, firmly. "The past cannot return—why refer to it?"

Josephine regarded her fixedly. "You are wise!" she said, presently, breaking into a contemptuous laugh. "To another, you would preach repentance—you know I never repent!" and with this strange speech, she quitted her.

Now that he had broken the matter to his daughter, the bridegroom used the utmost celerity in the despatch of preliminaries. The house was filled with workmen, upholsterers and cooks, whose din destroyed the quiet of Ida's chamber, the only one left unaltered. Josephine adhered to her resolution not to move a finger in the preparations for the detested intruder's reception. She would not go to the marriage, which took place at the bride's father's, in the country. Mr. Read did not insist; he was secretly pleased to be free for this evening—conscious that he could acquit himself more creditably, if her eyes were not upon him. The wedding party was to be at his house, the next night but one. The supper was in the hands of the profession; Mr. Read being too prudent to risk the probability of a grievous mortification, by entrusting the most trifling arrangement to his filial mar-plot.

It was dark when the bridal party arrived. The girls were dressed, and in the drawing-room. Ida's picture of the bride, drawn from Josephine's representment, was of an overdressed, forward country girl, who had wheedled and flattered a man of treble her age, into an offer of his hand and fortune; and she was puzzled by the elaborate toilette of the step-daughter. If her aim was to outshine the creature she had described, she had certainly over-estimated the labor its accomplishment required. She swept into the apartment with a hauteur, that made her diminutive form appear two inches taller; her jetty hair, almost an incumbrance from its length and profusion, dressed partly in ringlets, partly in braids—instead of, as she usually wore it at parties, and as her father liked to see it—in natural curls floating upon her shoulders. This style gave her a juvenile air, pleasing, heretofore—discarded by the full-fledged woman she acted to-night. Her robe was of white satin; the falling shoulders and proud swell of the throat exhibited to fine advantage by the low bodice. Ida was dressed in a silver-grey silk, with a berthe of rich black lace; the throat-latch and cuffs of black velvet and jet, making her extreme paleness more striking. Her figure and expression of repose had its opposite in the impersonation of splendid inquietude, which trod the rooms impatiently, rustling and gleaming in the blaze of the chandeliers.

"They have come!" said Ida, with a pitying accent, she could not repress, as Josephine turned deadly pale at the sound of wheels. "We must meet them," and she took her hand. Hers was fiercely thrown off. Repellant, defiant, she disdained support. The bride's brother and bridemaids had accompanied her; but Ida scarcely remarked their muffled-up figures, as "Miss Murray—" "Miss Arnold"—were named. Her eyes and thoughts were for the new Mrs. Read. Josephine's aversion had hood-winked her. Ida subscribed to her "cool and bold," as the solitary clause of the description that had the slightest resemblance to the reality; and "bold" was too coarse an epithet for the polished indifference of a woman of the world. She was not more than three-and-twenty, handsome, even in her travelling apparel—not "baby-faced"—and went through the introductions with a nonchalant grace; touching Josephine's cheek with her lips; extending to Ida, the tips of her fingers,—and bestowing a fashionable nod upon the group of servants in the hall; then, escorted by her husband, led the way, up-stairs. Josephine's face was balefully dark, as she resumed her walk. It was a part of her retribution, although she would not see it,—that as she had slighted, and thrust aside others, whose rights were equal with hers,—she was to take a secondary place where she had ruled so long.

The company were assembled, before the happy pair made their entry. Charley was with Ida—he was seldom far off—"November and June!" exclaimed he, aside. "Its enough to cause a man to forswear your sex, to see such a being a voluntary victim upon the altar of mammon."

Ida caught his arm; and seeing that she was fainting, he seized a bottle of cologne-water from the mantel, and dashed a handful into her face, so quickly and dexterously, that his nearest neighbors did not understand the movement. The powerful perfume recalled her scattering senses. Charley put her in the corner of a sofa; and placed himself in front of her, to screen her from observation, until her agitation should subside. It was quickly over; and only remarking—"You cannot get through the crowd just yet—sit still!" he continued fanning her, and chatting, as if her illness were the most natural thing imaginable,—a matter of no moment. His eyes were as busy as his tongue; and in their apparently aimless rovings, no group escaped scrutiny. He was fairly at fault; and opposed as the conclusion was to the premises he had assumed, was compelled to refer her attack to physical causes. Once, he fancied he saw an imploring agony in her eye, which entreated for help or comfort; but while he looked, it disappeared, leaving a serenity that rebuked his suspicions.

"Who is this Mr. Read is convoying this way?" he inquired. "I ought to know him."

"He is a stranger to me," replied Ida.

"Miss Ross, Mr. Copeland fears you will not recognise him, without a second introduction," said the host.

"And Mr. Copeland's fears were not groundless," said that gentleman, when his brother-in-law was out of hearing. "A less modest individual than myself might be dubious of the durability of an impression, made under such circumstances, as our briefest of brief interviews,—when I could have been, at best, but a fourth-rate attraction. Mr. Dana—I believe! I need not excuse myself for not observing you before. This is a brilliant assembly, Miss Ross. I have been rating my excellent brother-in-law"—there was the least curl of scorn upon his handsome mouth as he pronounced these words—"for deserting this galaxy of beauty to seek a mate in our gloomier regions."

"Isolated stars often dispense more light than the millions composing the galaxy," answered Ida.

"I have thought the same since I reached this corner," he returned, gallantly. "I parted with a friend of yours, yesterday, who would not have granted me time to say a word for myself, if I had engaged to deliver a quarter of the messages he charged me with."

"Ah! who was so unreasonable?"

"Mr. Germaine," he replied, smiling, as the blood rose to her cheek. "He enacted Telemachus last summer, with a difference in the object of his search."

"But with a like termination," said Charley, who seemed to understand the allusion.

"Yes—as it proved; but he did not know it at that time. He called by to see me on his way home. He was in a deplorable state of mind; but I am happy to say that the consolations of friendship were not unavailing. I have succeeded in inoculating him with hopes of more fortunate chances in future. Yesterday, he was ready to swear with Barnadine, that he 'would not die that day for any man's persuasion.'"

"Had he been long absent from his own neighborhood?" asked Ida. "Did he speak of Dr. Carleton's family?"

"Frequently. They are in their usual health, I believe, although he was not explicit upon this point; all ideas connected with Poplar-grove having a marked proclivity backward. 'Last summer' was the starting-point and terminus of his discourse to me. I am going to say something rude, Miss Ross. Is the lady by the pier-table your cousin-german?"

"What if she were my sister?"

"I should say, with all frankness, that I could not detect the family likeness. As she is not related by consanguinity or affinity, we will hope, benevolently, that her attendant is not constituted like my sister, who faints at passing a freshly-painted house; and furthermore award her praise for her liberality. You have heard of the clay that lived with roses—do you think that gentleman would appreciate the apologue?"

Ida and Charley laughed, although the remark might have been considered ill-natured. The pure red and white of the lady's face remained intact, but the gentleman's coat-sleeve had received a bountiful donation of flour or chalk from the snowy arm resting upon it.

"Is not that your friend, Miss Read?" pursued Mr. Copeland. "A pretty casket, but how frail to enshrine the spirit that speaks in those orbs! There is stirring music there, or I am mistaken. Hear me, Miss Ross, before you annihilate me by a second look of reproof. We simple yeomen do not get away from our farms often; and not above once in a lifetime happen upon such a godsend as this is, for adding to our slender stock of information. I am a boy of an inquiring mind, and my venerable and respected father's parting injunction was to keep my eyes and ears open. You believe every word I am saying—I see it in your countenance. You do not fear to accept my arm for a promenade? Mr. Dana—au revoir."

"I am afraid you have chosen an indifferent cicerone," said Ida.

"How unjust! I repel the insinuation, and to prove my innocence, will not ask a question concerning any one but yourself."

"I will answer those upon any other subject more readily."

"I had not expected to find you one who would shirk inquiry into her character and actions. Luckily I am not deputed to institute it. You do not flirt, I understand, Miss Ross?"

"Never. Why the question?"

"It is the principal amusement here, I observe; and that reminded me of my curiosity to behold you, when I heard that you were, in this respect, an anomaly in your sex."

"Is your judgment so unsparing?" said Ida. "I know many, whose sentiments and practices coincide with mine; but before we dispute, let us have a clear sense of each other's meaning. What is your definition of flirting?"

"With men, it signifies paying attentions that warrant the expectation of courtship:—a formal declaration, or expressions which are tantamount to it, when we have no inclination or intention to fulfil an engagement of marriage. The man who does this, incurs the opprobrium of the community, unless the lady is as great an adept in the art as himself. Then, it is a harmless sham fight; no mischief done, and nobody to blame. On the other side, the hapless wight, who is worsted by a coquette, has to bear ridicule, in addition to his bruises. She may beckon her victim on by smiles and blushes and half-uttered fondness, actually give him the pledges, and admit him to the privileges of an accepted lover; and then laugh in the face of the fond fool, whose peace she has wilfully destroyed;—and this sensible, charitable world claps its hands, and shouts 'bravo! for a clever woman!'"

"No woman will acknowledge the truthfulness of this sketch," rejoined Ida. "I have seen unthinking girls act thus; but we are cognizant of the crime—not its punishment, which is inevitable and severe."

"They settle down generally, like their neighbors, to a home and a husband," said Mr. Copeland.

"This is their outward lot; who knows their inner life?"

"The inner life of a woman! who, indeed! what a tissue of contradictions it must be! Follow my eye, Miss Ross. Do you see that Peri with cerulean eyes, who is bowing to that gentleman's petition for 'the pleasure of her hand?'" Again, that blanching cheek, as she murmured 'yes.'

"It is Lelia Arnold—my sister's bridesmaid. She is the loveliest and gayest girl in the room; you would say that she could not exist, but in this hot-house of flattery and pleasure. Last spring she went on a visit to a sick friend, and for four months we lost sight of her. She resides about six miles from, us; and we were notified of her return by her driving over, one day, attended by a handsome fellow, brother to the 'dear Annie' with whom she had been staying. The truth was out! The parade the family made of her disinterestedness and attachment to the invalid deceived my sister, but not me. She aims at universal fascination; this Lacy has prepossessing manners and appearance, talent,—and it may be, money. Her four months' nursing was a judicious outlay. Helen—Mrs. Read, declares there is no engagement; but I retain my opinion. She is, to-night, la reine du bal; on Sunday, she will kneel, in Church, the most angelic vision that ever was vouchsafed to a Catholic's prayers; relate a tale of woe, and the eyes now dancing in mirth, will be dewy with tears; if you are worth winning, she is the tender, love-beseeching girl. I am the only one who quarrels with her. The first time, I was ready to blow my brains out, for my brutality. I think now I shall wait for a more convenient season. She is

—minus a heart!"

"Are you well advised of this?" Her voice was very low.

"I wish I were as sure of a diadem! and if I had it, I will not be my own security, that she could not coax it from me, in five minutes after it came into my possession. Do not imagine this a digression from the subject. I could tell you of an exile from his native land, driven thence by her falsehood; of one, with high intellect and gigantic energies, paralyzed by his fall from the dizzy height, to which her promises had raised him;—and the snow, this winter night, enwraps another pierced heart, as cold as that which moves her fleecy drapery. What do you say now, Miss Ross? Does the world heap no honors, lavish no applause upon her?"

"I do not know how to believe you!" said Ida, putting her hand confusedly to her forehead.

"It is no private scandal;—I do not retail such,—the facts are notorious. Yet ask Helen—ask any woman who 'knows society,' and she will certify to the frequency of these occurrences—'crimes' you called them—and the impunity with which they are committed."

"It is a crime!" said Ida, wildly;—"an atrocious crime!"

"My dear Miss Ross! one would think you were reprobating a highway murderer! Recover yourself—the perpetrators are your acquaintances and friends. Another set, Helen! does Mr. Read take the floor, too!" he said to his sister, with the mocking smile Ida had noticed once before.

"I do not know;" she replied, carelessly. "He can take care of himself—"

"Having nearly arrived at years of discretion;" he concluded the sentence.

Ida did not like the unnecessary taunt, nor the smile with which he turned to her.

"Your naive abhorrence of flirtation, emboldens me to ask another question. Has disinterested affection an abode upon earth?"

"Are you infidel there also?" said Ida, lightly.

"You evade. I ask no reply but that. You are a believer; and while I was telling my story, your mind was running through the details of conduct, diametrically opposed to our fair friend's yonder."

It was a random shot; but that it told, he was assured by the nervous tremor of her arm; and kindly violating his promise not to be inquisitive about his fellow-guests, returned to his jesting strain.

It was well that he did. She was fearfully tried. At Miss Arnold's entrance, she had known the original of "Leila's" miniature; but cowering at the unexpected ordeal she must undergo, while she was beneath the same roof with herself, took refuge in the hope that she was deceived by an accidental resemblance. Mr. Copeland had torn down this frail shelter, and added a new sorrow to the burden that was crushing her. Why was she made to hear this recital? Was there a "special Providence" in his being Mr. Germaine's friend, and singling her out among a hundred strangers? What directed his mind into the channel it took? what pointed his finger to Lelia Arnold, and thereby probed her heart to its core? She had taught herself to think of, and pray for his wife—the good and beautiful, but not for this heartless coquette—"not for her! oh! my Father! I could have borne anything but this!" she cried, in bitterness of spirit. It was an experience which smites many with sore amazement—that it is easier to learn resignation for ourselves, than for those we love. She had begun her uninviting journey meekly; but rebelled that a cloud lowered over him.

Night, morning passed—the afternoon was upon the wane, ere she gained fortitude of body and spirit, for a re-encounter with the formidable stranger. A prop to her resolution was applied by Rachel, who "thought them young ladies must be having a mighty dull time. Mrs. Read nor Miss Josephine didn't leave their rooms from breakfast to dinner; and looks like they meaned to stay thar, till plump night; and Miss Murray and Miss Arnold are wandering about, like lost sheep. I wish you was well enough to sit with them awhile, Miss Ida."

Matters were much as she had represented. Miss Arnold was watching the passers-by, with an ennuyÉe air, and Miss Murray lounging in an easy chair, with a book. The latter arose with a cordial air.

"I am glad you are able to be with us again. You seem feeble, and we were uneasy lest fatigue might have made you sick."

Miss Arnold bowed distantly, and held herself aloof, during the dialogue that ensued. Ida gathered courage as she witnessed her uninterested attitude, which could hardly have been feigned. She had not recognised her; or as she reflected, in her humility, was more probable, had never heard of her. The thought was unflattering, but there was relief in it. Miss Murray was affable and unaffected; her features only redeemed from plainness by their agreeable expression. They talked of the distinctive traits of town and country life. She "had never resided in the city," Miss Murray said, "but had attended Mr. Purcell's school one session." Ida inquired "when?" and heard that they were there together, but in different classes.

"I do not remember seeing you," said she.

"But I knew your face, yesterday afternoon;" was Miss Murray's reply.

"Carry Carleton was your desk-mate, and Anna Talbot sat before you."

They were at no loss for topics now; and "Alice" and "Ida" superseded the formal "Miss."

"I read of Carry's marriage in the papers, but the name of her caro sposo has slipped my memory;" said Miss Murray.

"Dr. Dana,—he is an excellent young man; handsome, amiable, and has a high reputation as an intelligent man, and skilful physician."

"Dana! was there a gentleman of that name here last night?" asked Alice.

"Yes—his brother."

"He was introduced to me;"—and she laughed. "He is an original. I was highly entertained by his humorous sayings."

She was interested in Ida's graphic limning of his character.

"He is an intimate friend of yours, then?"

"One of the best I have;—the kindest of brothers."

"I knew he was as good as funny, from his face. You saw him, Lelia?"

"Whom?" asked she, without moving.

"Mr. Dana, the humorous gentleman, I talked to so long, by the piano."

"I saw him, but heard no humor. I thought him very stupid."

Miss Murray reddened. "Why, Lelia! but you are not a fair judge. If he had talked to you, you would not say so."

"He 'bored' me for what seemed an eternity, but which, Mr. Copeland, who released me, said was only ten minutes," said she, carelessly.

Miss Murray was content she should be silent, after this mal-apropos observation. Ida said "one must be well acquainted with him to appreciate him." Miss Arnold measured her from head to foot, and saying coldly, "I rarely err in a first opinion;" turned her blue eyes to the window again.

The others were forgetting her in the deepening stream of chat, when she came to the fire-place. "I am chilly!" she said, and throwing one of the sofa-pillows at Alice's feet, seated herself, and leaned her elbow upon her friend's lap. She was bewitchingly lovely—Ida owned; and so may have thought Richard Copeland, who happened to enter, just as she was settled.

"Rehearsing tableaux, young ladies!" said he. "Miss Ross—Miss Alice—good evening. You play humility, I perceive, Miss Lelia."

She did not offer to rise. "Do not I become the character?" she inquired.

"The character becomes you, at any rate. How have you wiled away the day, Miss Alice?"

Her sunshiny face made him as frank as herself, when he addressed her.

"Oh!" said she. "In sleeping, reading and eating, I contrived to dispose of all but the past hour or two, of which Miss Ross has kindly relieved me."

"I can testify to her adroitness in this particular," he replied. "She did a little time-lifting for me last evening. Have you finished your official returns of 'killed, wounded and missing,' Miss Ross?"

"I suspect my bulletins would comprise most of the latter," said Ida.

"And mine!" echoed Alice.

"There is one exception, at least," he returned, bowing. "Decide between yourselves to whom the captive belongs."

"May I be umpire?" asked Miss Arnold, her cheeks dimpling mischievously.

"When I was a boy, Miss Lelia, I read in an old spelling-book, of two cats, who came to the scratch over a piece of cheese, and agreed to refer its division to the monkey's arbitration. You have read it too, and recollect the catastrophe."

He appeared to take pleasure in being as rude to her as the letter of politeness allowed; and she bore it patiently, without relaxing her efforts to please and attract.

"Where are Helen and Miss Read?" he asked of Alice. "Do all the duties of hospitality devolve upon Miss Ross?"

"They are resting, I suppose, to be blooming at the party to-night," replied she.

"Your roses, then, are not so precious. Is this so?"

"Say instead, that they are perpetual," said Ida.

Alice blushed and laughed.

"Are we to be favored with your company, Miss Ross?" inquired Mr. Copeland.

"No, I do not keep late hours until my health is confirmed."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Alice. "Do go! I shall feel so strange, so lonely!"

"Mr. Copeland will prevent that; and I make over to you my interest in my friend, Mr. Dana, for one evening."

"Are you in the market for the first bidder?" said Miss Arnold, with pretty archness, to the former gentleman.

"If Miss Ross pleases. I intended to ask permission to remain in my present quarters until the hour at which we ultra-fashionables go to routs; but if she banishes me sooner, I am proud to do her bidding, hard as it is."

The lamps were lighted; and Mrs. Read conferred the further illumination of her presence.

"Where's your liege-lord, my lady?" asked her brother; and she replied, as she did, whenever she could, to inquiries concerning him—"Indeed, I do not know," and sank indolently upon a divan. The large, slumberous eyes did not brighten at his step in the hall; and when she drew her dress aside to make room for him, it was with more thought for the costly fabric, than desire to have him near. Josephine came in, as the bell sounded for supper. It was a cheerful meal, in spite of her haughty silence, and Ida's inward conflicts. Alice Murray's even spirits had an equalising effect upon the varied temperaments around her; Miss Arnold was witty and charming. Ida could not deny her eyes the luxury of watching her animated countenance. They feasted upon its beauty, until every thought was merged in admiration; and this, while, Mr. Copeland's sallies were exclusively for herself. Mrs. Read aroused from her proud languor, and manifested a keen relish for the ridiculous, and satirical powers, not inferior to her brother's. There was a veiled acrimony in their manner to each other, which impressed Ida with the belief of some unsettled feud, never lost sight of by either; and which she could not reconcile with Alice's assertion, that he was Mrs. Read's best-beloved brother. Their personal resemblance was marked; but gay and caustic as he was, there were scintillations of feeling in his dark eyes, which had burnt out, or were smothered in hers. "And how else could it be?" she said to herself, as she looked at her dignified guardian, transformed for the nonce, into the uxorious husband; and marvelled, for the thousandth time—"What made her marry him?"

They were incredulous when Mr. Read said it was time to dress for Mrs. Talbot's.

"You go with us, Richard?" said his sister.

"I will meet you there; I must go to my hotel awhile first."

There could be no reason for this, yet Ida thought Miss Arnold's brow clouded.

"Your hair was prettily arranged last night, Ida," said Alice. "Will you give me a few hints as to my coiffure?"

"With pleasure. I was about to ask if I could assist you in any way?"

So, instead of going off to her "sanctum," she busied herself in the dressing-room. Alice laughed and talked incessantly; Miss Arnold was grave and mute, except when her maid paused for directions. She objected, in the mildest of tones, that there was not light enough upon her table, and thanked "dear, obliging Alice," who sent a candle from hers, without fearing she could not spare it.

"I never looked so well in all my life!" said Alice, clasping her hands in pretended rapture. "I am all impatience to try the effect of my beauty. You have won me one admirer, Ida—myself."

"Add me to the number," said Miss Arnold, and gliding up, she kissed the rosy cheek.

"O Lelia! my darling!" screamed Alice. "My darling! you are an angel! Ida! is she not lovely?"

"Very!" said Ida, and she felt it. Alice said an affectionate—the rest a polite farewell;—they drove off;—and she went very quietly to her chamber—quietly—though her hand was pressed hard upon her heart; and her throat ached, as if iron fingers were tightened around it;—and while they were dancing, she was kneeling before that precious Bible, forgetting sorrow and self in its sublime teachings;—hours before their return, she slept, peacefully, happily—such sleep as even in this life "He giveth His beloved."