It was chinquapen season; and a grove of "bushes" on the outskirts of the Poplar-grove plantation resounded with the jocund voices of a nutting party. The green beards rolled back their white lips, in a smile, saving as plainly as smile could say, for the shining brown treasure—"Come and take us!" As a loaded upper limb was roughly shaken, and screams of laughter and pretended fright arose from the group, upon whose heads the hurtling shower descended, our friend Charley might be seen, sauntering away, in suspicious unconcern;—Ellen Morris was weaving her gay-coloured meshes around Mr. Euston's susceptible heart, and Mary Truman, with Charley, as aid, was pioneer to a dozen children of assorted sizes. One couple had strayed to the edge of the grove, where, from the brow of a hill, they overlooked a wide expanse of landscape. The lady, whose bloom was heightened by exercise, or some other cause, was profoundly occupied in sifting chinquapens—taken, a handful at a time, from her basket—into the same again. Her cavalier was speaking low and impressively.

"You cannot argue indifference from my delay. I was ready for this declaration a year ago; but you were not; and while I left you in no doubt as to my intentions, I wished you to have ample time and opportunity for making up your mind. I have not the vanity to hope to allure by personal attractions or showy qualities; but if the disinterested love of a manly heart can win your regard, I may trust that my offering will not be scorned. I visited you last winter, and saw that you were not happily situated. A more hasty lover would have spoken then:—I would not have your discontent with one home, influence your decision in my offer of another—would not have you self-deceived; for your happiness is dearer to me than mine. But now, you are translated to a sphere, in which you are appreciated and beloved, your will is untrammelled by the restrictions of a stern guardian—free to move, without the goad of desire to escape a disagreeable lot. I have been very patient, Miss Ida."

He had—and she knew nothing of him but what was generous and honourable. His persevering attachment was guaranty of its depth. Pleasant as her life was now, the death of her guardian, or his widower-hood—(she thought of such chances, in these days of death and change—) would cast her out upon the world—alone and homeless as before. She had all the woman's longing to be paramount in one heart,—the sun and attraction of a home. She could give her suitor but a sisterly regard, at present; but she had been told that this culminated in a calm affection, lasting through life—mighty in death. The passionate idolatry of earlier days was conquered by religion;—she believed that it had subsided into friendship;—its hopelessness impelled her to forget it—how more effectually than in another love? Her colour fled, as it ever did, before powerful emotion, and the fingers, while they went on, burying themselves in the glossy brown heap, were icy cold. She must reply—she looked up—not in the intelligent face—handsome in its pure fervor of devotion—but beyond—to where the blue sweep of the hills lay, graceful and light, against the rosy horizon; and she gazed, until her dark eyes were dilated and moveless, and her companion, struck by their expression, looked to the same spot. He saw but the hills, and the heavens, spanning them in crimson glory—she verily thought, as she stood, rooted to the earth, in the dumb agony of memory, and recoiling at the fate, her tongue had almost sealed,—that she beheld—as if the folds of that glowing canopy were drawn aside—the form and features of her first—what she knew now, was to be her only love!—that looking back, from whatever height in life, she should see the remembered lineaments distinct, unaltered, stamped upon that part of the Past he had made radiant.

"Ida! do you never mean to marry?" inquired Charley, that night.

"You gentleman say every girl will as soon as she has a good offer;" was the rejoinder.

"Germaine is not an 'eligible' then?"

"Who said anything about him?"

"I did. I am unable, by any system of ratiocination with which I am acquainted, to establish why a sensible, fancy-free lady should refuse a man, who is unexceptionable in morals, behaviour, education, appearance and prospects."

"What an array of recommendations! what evidence have you that I have committed this egregious folly?"

"Your quibblings—if nothing else. Deign to enlighten me as to motive—the act being granted. Why did you discard him?"

"Because I did not love him, Charley."

"That is to the point! now—why didn't you love him?"

"Because I could not."

"Not so good. Why couldn't you?"

"Impertinent! is love made to order? As with a soda fount, have you but to twist a screw in the heart, and it bubbles up for any 'unexceptionable,' who prays for it in a flowery speech?"

"Jumping the question again! What is your ideal husband like?"

"He must be my master!" said Ida. "Mr. Germaine is kind and excellent—intelligent and gentlemanly; but my will would never yield to his. He would say—'Shall I?' and 'will you?' in matters where his interests, no less than mine, were involved. My ideal says, gently, but decidedly—'I think'—'I will?'"

"So our friend may ascribe his ill-success to his lack of Blue-Beardishness! Oh, woman! thy name is caprice!"

Ida had scanty faith in the reality of his wonder, but most of that expressed was genuine. "Such a fine young man! well-to-do in the world, and she so unprotected!" Carry had built many castles in the air, upon Ida's presupposed acceptance of her neighbor, and expostulated with her.

"Better a lonely, than a miserable life, dear Carry;" was the reply. "I have my Bible to direct me,—my Heavenly Father to lean upon. While I obey Him, He will not leave me friendless. As to the obloquy of old-maidism, I do not dread it."

At the fall of the leaf, the town Danas returned home, and Ida slipped into her place in the family, as though she had always constituted a part of it. The time winged happily and uneventfully along until Christmas. Dr. Carleton, Arthur and Carry were with them then, and another visitor, Ida's namesake, and the miraculous prodigy of Poplar-grove;—a lovely babe, four months old; with its father's hazel eyes, and the transparent skin, and bright flossy curls of its beautiful mother.

On New Year's eve, the older members of both families collected in the parlor, to greet the commencement of the new cycle. Ida occupied an ottoman, between her guardian and Charley; chatting, with girlish vivacity, to the latter. Mrs. Dana was in the opposite corner, in the shadow of the mantel, conversing with her father; but her voice shook at times, and her eyes wandered constantly to her young friend. Ida did not notice this, nor the sadness that tinged her guardian's fatherly look, as he smoothed her chestnut hair for a long time, musingly. She did not suspect he was thinking of her. He smiled, as she threw up her eyes to his face, and rested her head against the arm of his chair; but it was a fleeting light—the uncertain enjoyment of a pleasure, whose loss one anticipates. Finally he spoke.

"Ida! will you give your attention for a minute?"

"For an hour, if you wish it, sir. I am all ear."

"You must be mouth, too—for there are questions for you to answer. Yesterday, in examining certain papers of Mr. Read's, pertaining to the guardianship, I found a packet of letters, mostly from your mother—some from Mr. Grant, and one of yours—written after your illness at Sunnybank. You say therein, that it was your mother's wish for you to take her place, as mistress of the establishment there, so soon, as in his judgment, you should be possessed of the ability; that there were plans laid off, but unfinished by her, whose completion she bequeathed to you;—and you enclose a schedule, which surprised me by the sound sense and foresight displayed in its provisions and items. You conclude by declaring your prepossessions for a country life, and the binding character of the duty, which you conceived was resting upon you. I referred to your mother's letters. It is not for us to censure the dead, but it is amazing how Mr. Read could have slighted the desire, virtually conveyed in every one of them, viz.: that it should be optional with you, at what time after you had attained the age of eighteen, and remained single, you should return to a home, to which, she was assured conscience and affection would alike attract you. She describes your strength of mind and purpose, when a child, as remarkable; and says that she would not fear to entrust to you, the execution of any directions concerning the business she then superintended. My course is too plainly laid down for me to deliberate or waver. In a year, you will be of age; your judgment is as ripe now, as it will be then; you are competent to control yourself, and your subordinates. It is for you to say whether you still consider it obligatory upon you, to anticipate your legal majority."

There was a blank silence. Mrs. Dana alone, was not surprised, and she had most pending upon the verdict. Ida hid her face upon her guardian's arm.

"I would not trouble you needlessly, dear child;" he said, passing his hand over her dark locks; "else I would tell you how dear you were to us, before you lived with us;—how doubly dear you are now. If personal feeling were the arbiter in this case, I would never have made the statement you have heard to-night; and Jenny has not spoken, because foreseeing that her affection might outrun her discretion, I exacted a promise of non-interference. Your home is here, dear Ida, as long as you choose to make us happy by your presence. I repeat—the decision rests with you."

"I do not know what to say. Determine for me, dear Mr. Dana."

"I may not, my child."

"Carry! Charley! what ought I to do?"

Charley shook his head; but Carry was not so prudent. "Oh! Ida! your going will break sister's heart; a year cannot make much difference."

"If it is my duty at all, it is now, as much as then—is it not?" asked Ida, of Charley.

"I am afraid so;" said he, seriously.

"Charley! how can you!" exclaimed Carry. "One would think you were willing to lose her! You are young, Ida—there is no necessity for burying yourself alive, yet."

"Have a care, Carry! John is right—she must decide;" cautioned Arthur.

"One question, Ida," said Charley, kindly. "You have revolved this issue often in your mind, even since you have been with us—have you not?"

"Yes."

"You said, a year ago, you felt bound to fulfil your mother's wishes, and that your inclinations leaned the same way—how is it now? There is the case in a nut-shell."

"One hard to crack, nevertheless;" said Ida, with glistening eyes. "I love Sunnybank, and I have had misgivings that the indulgence I meet here, may spoil me for the active, self-denying life I must lead;—for I have always looked forward to a residence there, some time or other;—but I am so happy here. Still, Mr. Dana, I have a vast deal of surplus energy which ought to be employed. I am not working with all my might. Does this sound ungrateful?"

"Not a bit of it!" struck in Charley's assuring tones. "It is not that you love Caesar less, but Rome more."

"But it is so far!" objected Carry,—"and so out-of-the-way. Suppose you fall sick! O, brother John! it is heartless to send her off by herself!"

"She shall not go by herself, Carry. If she concludes to leave us, it must not be before Spring; then Jenny and I will go with her. If she is convinced, upon trial, that she is inadequate to the enterprise, or dislikes it, we shall be too glad to have her back. Grant is a respectable man, and an intelligent farmer; and she must secure a companion. You mentioned his sister-in-law, I think, Ida?"

"As to the distance," said Charley, "If those snail-like fellows continue the railroad, as they say they will—it will pass within six miles of Sunnybank."

This was a ray of comfort; yet Mrs. Dana burst into tears, and Carry threw her arms around Ida, sobbing bitterly, as she "feared she ought to go."

"Carry! Jenny! you must not!" said Charley. "She has done her duty—and should be encouraged. You are borrowing trouble upon interest. Who can tell what may happen before Spring? An earthquake, or the end of the world may stamp 'Finis' upon sublunary things, and you'll be ashamed of yourselves for having anticipated evil."

He succeeded in calling up a smile, and Carry unintentionally effected a further diversion. "Oh, Ida!" she sighed. "If you had married Mr. Germaine!"

"I am happier as it is, Carry."

"I move a postponement of the subject, sine die;" said Charley. "We must welcome in the year with a song. Come to the piano, Carry. Ida, Arthur—come! we want a quartette."

They learned to speak of the coming separation with composure; but its shadow was upon all hearts, longer and blacker as the time drew nearer. Ida sometimes debated with herself whether she could be called to sever a relationship which had taken such hold of her inmost soul. She was not supine or useless; for the love a Christian's virtues gain, is indirectly leading men to the Saviour; and every day she could animate some drooping spirit, or alleviate some woe, were it only a child's. Yet she was not performing labors commensurate with her talents and energies; she was upon the circumference of the wheel;—Nature designed her for the centre and motive power. There was a satisfaction in having the matter settled. She had not the courage to introduce it herself; but her guardian's straight-forward summing-up and appeal had convinced her, and the rest of his hearers. A scheme, so uncommon, had opposers and despisers in abundance. Some honestly lamented her departure; and many more insinuated at "family disagreements" and "high-spirited young ladies." She was "Quixotic" and "masculine," said others, boldly; and there were benevolent friends who thought it a pity so much eloquence should be wasted and carried faithful reports to the cause of the commotion. Among the busiest in promulgating scandal, was Josephine Read, until she was taught caution by a scathing rebuke from Charley, inflicted publicly, in response to a sneer, not meant for his ears; and of the opposite party, Ellen Morris' unobtrusive grief affected Ida sadly. They seldom spoke of Lynn; but there was a tacit understanding that his memory was the bond of their intimacy. Outwardly, Ellen was the same—only Ida knew that the spontaneity of her gaiety was no more, and that the most brilliant jets were forced up by a pressure, that would have destroyed the spring of most hearts. On the second anniversary of Lynn's death, she came to invite Ida to a walk—showing a bouquet of spring flowers concealed in her veil. Divining their destination, Ida turned their steps, of her own accord, to the cemetery. The spring was forward; so it had been the year he died; but its young blossoms were killed by the frost and snow which should have belonged to winter—and he perished with them! The turf was green; the evergreen rose, creeping over the headstone, was full of glossy leaves and the violets upon his breast were budding. The girls knelt on either side of the grave; trimmed away the dead twigs of the rose, plucked the sere leaves of the violet, and clipped the ragged grass—talking softly, as over a sleeping babe. Besides themselves, there were no visitors in the grounds; and having deposited their offering upon the mound, they sat down. Ellen's arm was encircling Ida's waist, while one of the latter's rested on the grave.

"I may not do that," said Ellen, mournfully. "Although when it rains or snows at night, I weep to think how it beats upon him, and pine to shelter him with my arms,—when I am here—and I come often, Ida—secretly! I see him dead—perhaps murdered by me—and I no more dare embrace that clay, as you are doing, than the murderer would touch the body of his victim, lest it should bleed afresh."

"This is morbid regret, Ellen. I was his sister and confidante. You had nothing to do with his death; if you had never parted, the disease might have assailed him. The blight upon your heart is deadly enough, without increasing it by unmerited self-reproach. Everything is so calm and sweet here, this afternoon, and I have such a consoling surety that he is happy! The spirits of the loved return to earth—are hovering about us—present, although unseen. He may be with us."

'"Do they love there still?'" said Ellen.

"They do—with a love purged from selfishness and doubtings—perfect—pure! Oh! Ellen! the bliss and holiness of Heaven! why do we love this world so well?"

"They are loveless alike to me; I have no hope or rest in either. When he was here, I loved this earth, because he was upon it; its charm has gone—and can I thank, or revere Him who bereaved me?"

"My dear girl! He smites to heal. In my short life, I have studied His providences sufficiently to teach me that it is the wise Physician, as well as the Father, who takes away our hurtful delights, and rives our hearts. He waits now, Ellen, to infuse life—His life, into your fainting soul—to wind these severed cords about His loving heart. This patient, boundless love was our Lynn's dying hope; and you will never be comforted until you accept it."

"It is easy to talk!" said Ellen, fretfully. "You cannot understand a sorrow like mine."

"The heart knoweth its own bitterness, Ellen, and my life has not been all sunshine. There are griefs, piercing and drying up the spirit—never revealed to man."

"I know that. Is not my soul shrouded in sackcloth drinking wormwood and gall—when my body is bedizened in its finest array, and the sparkling wine reflecting the lying bloom, that says I am glad and gay! I envied you your mourning dress as long as you wore it; and when he was named by the hypocrites who fawned upon him in life, I had to seem as unconcerned as they; you had no need to stifle your sighs, for he was your friend. I had denied him as my lover, while we were betrothed; I cannot publish it now. There is but one restraint upon my despair. If, as you say, the spirits of beloved ones are with us, and he is among the blest, he must be grieved,—if they can grieve—that I contemn the Being he loves."

"Ellen! this language is evidence that your chastisement is not wanton injustice. Whether he hears you or not, you grieve and insult your Maker by your mad words, the Saviour, to whom you are indebted for being and comforts and friends—who has loved you from the beginning. You knelt to a creature He had made; He interposed the gate of death, to save you from the fate of the idolater, and you ask to spend your life in bewailing your affliction—in showing your adoration of perishable dust, and reviling your best Friend! Is this your gratitude?"

Ellen did not speak. Ida drew her closer. "My dearest girl!" she said, "I do not reprove you in my own name. I have been as guilty as yourself; and it is in remembrance of the retribution which followed, I warn you—in remembrance of the love that forgave me, and bestowed peace and joy, in place of disquiet and mourning, that I entreat you—come to Jesus!"

"I cannot! your pleadings are water upon a rock. I have been thinking, as you were speaking, whether I cared to go to Heaven—and I painted it, gloriously beautiful, as holy men tell us it is—but without the love, my foolish vanity tempted me to sport with, when it was mine—for which I would imperil my soul now—and the Creator of that heaven, and its angels, and fair sights and music were delightless. Rather misery with him, than every other joy without. Oh! if he had known how I loved him!"

Her head fell upon the tomb, and the tears rained upon the turf. Ida wept, too—but in pity. Ellen was perverse in her hopeless sorrow—her friend could only commit her to the tender mercy she had besought her to seek.

"If you knew how Our Father loves you both, dear Ellen!" she whispered, but there was no reply.

It was a trial to say farewell to that grave. She had visited it ere the sods joined over it; planted flowers there, and watered them with tears; had sat there at sunset, and watched the "long, bright pomp" he used to love; had learned there lessons of contentment and charity, and active usefulness, "while the day lasted." Next to one other green heap, where the willow shadows were dancing, this was the dearest spot on earth to her. She seemed brought so near to Lynn by the sight of it; and as she had kissed his white brow in death, she pressed her lips to the marble, with a murmur of regretful fondness—"Brother!"