Anna Talbot's sketch of Emma's privations was not over-drawn. If her condition had been tolerable, an offer from Ida Ross, as she recollected her,—proud and unsociable,—would not have tempted her to change it. But Ida was honorable and liberal, despite her haughtiness; and in her uncle's family, she was an ill-paid under-servant. Ida sent her carriage and servants for her; and this regard for her comfort, while it called forth the contumely of her employers, raised her hopes of a friendly reception.

"There's my mistis in the porch," said Will, leaning down from his perch, to speak to his fair passenger. They were driving up an avenue, closed by a house, which, to Emma's modest eyes, was an imposing architectural pile. A haze dimmed her vision; in her agitation, she saw nothing of the awful figure Will pointed out, but the flutter of white drapery. The great yard-gates were open, and the carriage rolled over the gravelled circle which swept by the main entrance. She did not recognise the frank, sweet face that appeared at the carriage-door, but the voice was not to be forgotten. "I am very glad you are come!" it said, and the kiss and the embrace verified the welcome. "How changed!" was the thought of each. Emma was thin, and when the glow of the meeting faded—dejected. She looked, to Ida, like one who had been subjected to a constant weight, bending body and heart, almost to breaking,—as if the one feather more would end the torture. And her own spirit, gaining buoyancy day by day, under its discipline, gathered force from the necessity of restoring the lost elasticity to another's. She conducted her school-fellow to a chamber, once hers, and adjoining that she now occupied; divested her of her heavy hat and shawl, and commanded her imperatively to "lie down." Emma reposed her weary limbs upon a luxurious mattress; the breeze waving the spotless curtains, and whispering of green hills, and cool forests and violet banks; her hostess, after vainly attempting to persuade her that she required sleep—bathing her head with fragrant waters, and talking in inspiriting, affectionate tones, which were more than manna to her hungry heart. Mrs. Dana had gone the preceding day, and Emma was soon convinced that she had done a charitable—most meritorious deed, in arriving when she did; but she smiled, as she heard the lively voice dilate upon the "horrors" and "azure imps," that had infested the house while she was sole occupant—"always excepting my chaperon and soi-disant housekeeper, good Miss Betsey—soi-disant as I am, in point of fact, housekeeper myself. I have a great fancy to see to everything with my own eyes. We are retired here—I wrote this, you know—but there are some agreeable families within visiting distance. I am delighted at having a helper in the labor of receiving and returning visits; and my rides and walks will be doubly pleasant. Are you fond of out-door exercise?"

"Very—but I have neglected the duty for a year or two past."

"You shall not be so remiss here. I intend to be exacting. A gallop before breakfast, and a walk—not a promenade—before tea, will plant bright roses in these white cheeks. When you are rested, we will unlock our budget of news. Having been apart for so long, each will have a week's steady talk."

When she arose, revived in spirits and strength, she was taken over the premises "to see her home." Mr. Grant was introduced, and doffed his hat as to a queen; the negroes were respectfully cordial to the friend of their mistress; but more than all, Ida's bearing assured the trampled-down orphan, that she was here second to none—superior in command and importance to all, except the head of the establishment. It may have been the earnestness, which was the prevailing element of Ida's character, or her sympathetic nature, (Charley affirmed it was the latter,) which made it impossible for those who knew her, to be indifferent, or lukewarm in their sentiments towards her. Mr. Read, Josephine and Pemberton, having seen the wrong side of her disposition, hated her with a rancor, benefits nor patient efforts could appease. Her chosen intimates found no mate for their affection, but in their esteem and respect. Lynn's love for her was more like worship than that he entertained for Ellen—adored as she was; with Carry, she had no compeer of her sex; the exceeding tenderness of John Dana and his wife was a mystery to themselves; and in Charley's heart she had the highest place—taking rank even of the brother, to whom he had sacrificed his hopes of earthly bliss. Emma experienced, and yielded to the charm; she could not have resisted successfully, if she would; for Ida was determined to attach her to herself, and her indomitable resolution would have accomplished this, had her attractive qualities been less winningly displayed. From the moment of her arrival, Emma improved, and as the beautiful tracery of her character came out, to reward the warm rays love poured over it, Ida was confirmed in her satisfaction at her choice. She had not entire confidence in her ability to control the restive spirits, which had run wild, without rule or rein; but this fear vanished with a careful observation of her government and its results. If the "wand" was "flower-wreathed," it was no supple or brittle reed, to bend or snap in the storm. None, who had once rebelled against her mild authority, were ever inclined to repeat the offence.

If, as had been asserted, Ida sought the Utopia of her fanciful dreams in her "return to Palestine," as she playfully styled it; if her ideas of country life were drawn from pastorals and romances, she would have sunk under the drawbacks and iron realities she encountered. Her influence over her servants was strong; but among so many, insubordination reared its head, now and then. The idle and sulky, deceived by her amenity and care for their welfare, appealed from Mr. Grant's decisions to her clemency; and with so much plausibility, that when this mode of undermining his laws was new, she was ready to sustain them. Consistent, however, to her principle of examining both sides of a question, she refused to reverse any decree, before hearing all the circumstances; and invariably, when this was done, ratified the original judgment. There were old and privileged supernumeraries who talked of her father's childhood, as a thing of yesterday; and volunteering the advantage of their experience for the benefit of the "poor chile,"—tossed their heads high at the idea of her controlling or enlightening them. Adding to self-righteousness, the whims and peevishness of age, they caused Ida more annoyance than the management of the whole estate besides; and hardly less than the never-ending vexations of the Digganses, and their neighbors of the same stamp, not to mention Pinely—most wearisome of all. He penned voluminous epistles, to complain of "a trivial oversight in her otherwise irreproachable system of philanthropy," or to convey a "father's acknowledgments for the soul-elevating teachings of which his beloved offspring were accipients;" and when they were unnoticed, his visits were frequent. She received him with distant politeness; and strove to repress his forwardness by chilling dignity—and he came again next day. At last he presented himself in the parlor, where were Emma and herself—so intoxicated, that he could not stand upright. His tongue was oily as ever, notwithstanding his limbs refused to do their office; and when Will entered, in answer to the vehement ring, he was holding the door with both hands, swinging it with him in his attempts to bow to the ladies, he was addressing as, "incomparable pair! whose supereminent enchantments are confessed by the most hebete of created intelligences."

Emma had shrunk into a corner, and Ida, her hand still upon the bell-rope—her brow frowning—spoke in a lofty tone, "Uncle Will! you will conduct this gentleman to the porch, and as much further as he shall see convenient to go. It is necessary to teach him to exercise some discrimination as to the times of his visits."

For Laura, the girls were strongly interested. Her progress in her studies was incredibly rapid; and their wretched home, if comfortless, was clean. She had no means of providing wardrobes or furniture; and Ida, hailing the dawning reformation, contributed as delicately as she could, such articles as they needed most. Laura's taste was good; and her aptitude enabled her to catch the ways and language of her friends, with fidelity and quickness. In six months after Ida's business call, she would not have been ashamed to introduce her in any company, however polished. But how was this to end? Would it not be wiser benevolence to content themselves with bestowing the rudiments of a common education, without exciting aspirations after pursuits, so incongruous with the occupations of her lowly station, as belles lettres, music and drawing? Ida put the objection down with an irreversible negative.

"The girl has a mind! and every intellect which God makes, should receive all the nutriment it can absorb. Let us give her her quantum, and in time she will reach her level. She is below it at present. If that odious father were out of her way!"

"He will be a drag to her as long as he lives;" said Emma.

"Yes, and alas! he is more fit to live than to die. You have read of the beggar idiot, who told Sir Walter Scott that he would be perfectly happy, but for the 'Bubly Jock,' (turkey gobbler,) that followed him everywhere. Pinely is my 'Bubly Jock,' I listen to hear him gobble whenever he comes near me."

"Laura has an uncommon talent for music;" said Emma.

"I have remarked it;" replied Ida, "and we have thought of the same thing, that her surest path to independence, and the position in society his vice has lost, is to qualify herself for a teacher. I waited to consult you before recommending it to her."

"And that delay was unnecessary. You can take my consent for granted in everything your judgment approves. Now, Laura has no motive but her love for knowledge and us. With a definite aim, she will surmount every difficulty, for her energy is as remarkable as her ability."

This was one of their twilight talks in the roomy porch.

"I believe," said Ida, laughing; "Miss Betsey fears the Ross pride is extinct in me. It costs her a twinge to see me teach my sable class, and she modestly hinted, this morning, that her chamber, or the dining-room would be a more proper place for their recitations, than mine. I represented to her that they were not there more than an hour in the day, and came in groups of three or four—one set retiring as another entered; and that they felt a pride in being neat and orderly, because they were in 'Mistis' room,'—but the dear old creature was not satisfied, although she held her peace."

"And you are the Ida Ross, whose pride kept the whole school at a distance!" exclaimed Emma. "How you were misunderstood!"

"Understood, my dear! if I appeared disagreeable and selfish. That was my dark age, Emma. How much has transpired since! how much of sorrow—how much of joy!"

"You are not unhappy now!" said Emma, in a tone of surprised inquiry.

"No, my love! happy and busy—and thankful for my Father's love and favors—not the least of which is His gift of a companion."

Carry had asked her a similar question during her first summer at Poplar grove—with what different emotions she had replied!

"But," she resumed, "the unbending will is not dead yet. Dr. Hall and lady called on me to-day, and I unfolded our prospectus of a Sabbath-school. The doctor pursed up his mouth in his quizzical way. 'The Church is four miles from you.'

"'But only three from you,' said I.

"'There is preaching there, on an average, two Sabbaths in a month. Will not that interfere with your instructions?'

"'Not at all, sir. We shall be through by the hour for public worship.'

'"But there will not be time to go to another church, where there is no service.'

"'Can't help it, sir. We must go home and read a sermon, seasoned by the consciousness of duty performed.'

"'You have a school-mania;' said he.

"'The grown trees are so stubbornly crooked, that I have no hope but in the twigs.'

"'A fair hit, doctor!' said Mrs. Hall. 'Submit with a good grace. He was wishing, the other day, for something to keep 'idle men' and children off of 'Satan's ground.' He is feigning objections, Ida.'

'"A bad game, doctor,' answered I. 'We will have the school, and what is more,—you for superintendent.'

"He remonstrated now in earnest, but we out-talked him. He and Mr. Latham are to circulate the information, and solicit aid and scholars."

"Who says unmarried women can do nothing in the work of the world's reformation?" said Emma. "How many in your situation, would be wrapped up in self, with a churlish delight that the claims of their fellow-creatures upon them were so feeble."

"A woman's heart, in its healthy state, must have something to love;" returned Ida. "The fountain is perennial, so long as its waters are drawn off. Stop their outgoings—stagnation—poisonous miasma—dryness ensue. The more we have to love, the better we feel—the better we are, Emma—for the closer is our approximation to the Being, who is all love!"

"This time, a year ago, I was disposed to think that in the economy of His Providence, crosses and trials were all His children's portion in this life. Sweetly has He rebuked my want of faith!" said Emma.

"Not a year ago," rejoined Ida, "His ways to me were past finding out. I wished to stay here in peaceful seclusion, and He sent me again into the world. The 'silver lining' of the cloud, impervious then, is already visible. Leaving out the experience I have acquired in that time, I should have commenced my residence here under a guardianship, which made interest and appearance the gauge of fidelity; should have missed Mr. Dana's invaluable assistance; have lost an opportunity to forget past grievances, and return good for evil—more than one, indeed. I had not heard then, that you were teaching, and should not, therefore, have thought of you as a co-laborer. Uncle Will would say we 'ought to be happy in the Lord's appointed way.'"

"There is no other path of peace," said Emma. "Yet I am foolishly ungrateful sometimes, in misinterpreting what He has done, and peering into the 'shadowy future.'"

"That was, formerly, my besetting sin. Now I have to guard against 'looking mournfully into the past.' What a world of meaning in those few words! And how like a trumpet-call to the 'world's field of battle,' sound the inspired exhortations of the same poet—

I can see the vigorous, upward fling of his arm, as shouting that last line, he shakes out his banner in the morning breeze! It thrills through every nerve, as I recite it."

"His is the true Bible philosophy," said Emma, "'living by the day,'—saying, as we fall asleep at night—

"Dear Lynn!" sighed Ida. "They sung that hymn at his funeral."

"'Looking mournfully!'" said Emma, in affectionate chiding.

"Yes! yet not repiningly. I was thinking, also, of the sure pleasure we have in the possession of our Father's love. We know that is pure, and cannot pass away; while our most sinless earthly attachments are enjoyed with trembling."

The Sunday-school, a novelty to all—the scoff of not a few, opened with fifty scholars and five teachers—Dr. and Mrs. Hall, Mr. Latham, a student of medicine and protegÉ of the former, Ida and Emma. Classing the children according to their capacity and attainments, the Doctor apportioned an equal number to each of his assistants, and planted himself before a form, containing ten of the most unpromising. "There must be an awkward squad," he said, afterwards, "and who is more fit to command it?" Reinforcements were on the ground by the following Sabbath. The number of pupils constantly increased; some who came to see remained to teach; and others were pressed into service by the energetic superintendent. Having induced him to put his hand to the plough, Ida gave over her exertions in that quarter; he drove as straight and deep a furrow as she could have desired. She was a teacher in an obscure corner, and nothing in her appearance or that of her class, distinguished them from the crowd, but when the thread-like rill widened into a flood, bearing broadly, steadily onward, the wonder and praise of its early opponents, she felt an honest pride in the reflection, that the witch-wand of Christian charity which had bent to the source of the stream was hers. Dr. Hall was mindful of this, and with the mistaken, but well-meant importunity of gratitude, begged her to occupy a more conspicuous post. She had contributed largely to the library, the selection of which was left wholly to her, and he entreated her to act as librarian. She declined, laughingly, and more positively, as he insisted; and at length, was driven to say, that "if it were for the actual good of the school, she would even do violence to her sense of propriety, and comply; as it was not, she hoped to be excused from occupying a stand, which was, for a lady, at best, but an honorable pillory." And the Doctor, finally comprehending what other men as wise and exemplary, are slow to admit—that to use one's talents does not imply the abandonment of the retiring modesty of womanhood—installed Mr. Latham in the vacant chair.

Ida was not too much absorbed in her numerous avocations to think of, and communicate with her absent friends. Her correspondence with Mrs. Dana, Carry and Charley was regular; John Dana wrote longer letters to her than to any one besides his wife; she heard, once in a while, from Alice Murray, and through her, learned that Mrs. Read was living in strict retirement at her father's, seeing none but her near relatives and friends; and that Richard was playing the lover to Lelia Arnold. "But," said the merry writer—"who angles for him, must bait one of these patent hooks, which hold, as well as catch." Ida sighed softly, as she read, and was unceasingly busy for the rest of the day; her infallible remedy for sombre thoughts. Mrs. Read had written once, while Ida was at Mr. Dana's—a mere note of remembrances and thanks. She might have supposed that Josephine had forgotten her existence, but for an uncomfortable suspicion that the cessation of Anna's friendly billets was owing to her influence. Ellen Morris wrote often, and spent a fortnight with her and Emma in August. Ida signalled Carry of the intended visit, and invited her to join in the re-union. She was eagerly expected each evening of Ellen's stay, and as often they looked in vain. The guest had been gone a week, before tidings came from Poplar grove. It was a double letter. Arthur wrote that the little Ida was recovering from an alarming illness. The crisis had passed now. They would have sent for her, but the child's danger was so imminent for many days, that there was no certainty that she would survive until a letter reached Sunnybank. "If she had died"—and the strong physician's hand had trembled as he wrote it—"I should have taken our Carry to you. It was a heart-breaking trial to her—I trust, not an unsanctified one."

Carry's was a blotted sheet, penned in agitation or haste, but its contents were cheering wine to Ida's soul. There was much said of her unworthiness, and thankless reception of the goodness which had followed her all the days of her life, and thanksgivings for her child's restoration, with slight allusions to her harrowing anxiety, while it was suspended 'twixt life and death. "Pray, dear Ida," said she, "that I may forever cling to the cross, to which I fled in my distressful hour!"

"Another!" said Ida, with tearful gladness. "Oh! blessed Redeemer! is there not room in Thy fold for all?"

"Surely," she replied to Carry, "None of us liveth to himself, and none of us dieth to himself. My darling name-child, (may she be one of the Saviour's lambs!) has, in her unconscious infancy, led her mother to Him. My own Carry! this is what I have prayed for from the first hour in which I prayed at all. If the angels in heaven rejoice over repenting sinners, shall not we, who have sinned, suffered with them, rejoice the more at their emancipation from bondage? By what various avenues of approach do we arrive at the Cross! our Hope! Some fly, scourged by fears of the wrath to come; some are drawn by the gentle cords of love—attracted by the majestic sweetness of the Saviour's smile; others, like you, for comfort in sharp and sudden sorrow; and others yet, with myself, having quaffed in quick succession, the beaded nectar that knowledge, worldly applause, earthly loves gave to our parched lips, come weary, distraught—our blood drying with the fierce heat of the poison, to lie down beside the still waters. Oh! my beloved! the delights of sin may entice, and cavillers ridicule, as false professors cast reproach upon our holy religion; but let us make it the one object of life—all duties and pleasures subservient to it; let us love it—work for it; never raising our hands, to sink again idly, but striking blows which shall tell our zeal for Christ's kingdom!

"I long to see you and your dear ones. If you cannot come before, you are pledged to me for a part—say the whole, of October. The entire family—my guardian and your sister, Charley and the 'wee ones' are to celebrate my majority then. My nominal majority—virtually, I am as free as I ever expect to be. Emma is a treasure to me, and she seems happy. Who could have presaged, in our school days, that we would live and labor together!"