Mr. Purcell, himself an able connoisseur and liberal patron of the fine
arts, never suffered a suitable occasion to pass, without endeavoring
to implant, and cultivate like tastes in his pupils. No "Exhibition"
or Collection was recommended unadvisedly. He justly considered a
relish for a vicious or false style, worse than none. So well was this
known, that the girls were equally eager to examine what he esteemed
worthy of their inspection, and to avoid that which he condemned. An
artist visited the city, and advertised a set of "choice paintings, on
exhibition for a few days." They were much talked of, and the scholars
impatiently listened for the verdict of their principal. There were
many smiling faces, when he announced, that he accepted, with pleasure,
the polite invitation of the artist to himself and the members of his
school. "The pictures were the work of a master hand;--he recommended
them to their careful study." That afternoon, the studio was full.
Some went from curiosity; some to be in the fashion; comparatively a
small number through genuine love for the art. Among the latter class
was Ida Ross. Bestowing little notice upon her acquaintances present,
she passed around the room, intent upon the object which had drawn
her thither. She was not disturbed; her reserve repelled, and her
intellectual superiority awed; she knew--and they knew that though
with, she was not of them; as an institution, they were proud of her;
as individuals, with a very few exceptions, they disliked and envied
her.
The proprietor, or a gentleman, supposed to be he, was at a desk,
writing. He must have possessed the power of abstraction in an
extraordinary degree; for the chattering about him resembled the
confabulations of a flock of magpies, more than the conversation of
decorous young ladies. Groups came and departed; and Ida did not mark
the changes, until, diverted from the contemplation of a splendid
landscape by the sound of her own name,--she perceived a group near by,
composed of four or five girls and as many young men, none of them her
well-wishers or admirers;--their attention divided between herself, and
a sketch of St. John's church. Josephine was the magnet of the circle,
and behind her, was the smirking Pemberton. A single glance took in
all this, and features and expression were immobile as before. It was
Josephine's voice she had heard;--its tones higher than usual. She
neither desired, nor affected concealment.
"As I was saying, the church-yard has been converted into a gymnasium.
The cry is no longer, 'Liberty or Death!'--but 'Leap Frog or die!'"
A general cachinnation applauded this felicitous hit.
"On Saturday last"--continued the narrator--"the unrivalled troupe were
in the midst of one of their most elaborate performances, encouraged
by the presence--I am not sure, but assisted by a select company of
spectators. I need only specify Miss Ross and friend, name unknown--to
assure you of the high respectability of the assemblage. Smiled upon
by beauty, and animated to superhuman exertions by soft glances from
one, perchance too dear to his youthful heart,--the chief of the band
threw his whole soul into his lofty undertaking, and alas! his body,
also! He arose, like the Phoenix, from the ashes below, but to seek
the earth again, having fallen from the frightful height of three
feet. He lay upon the sod without sense or motion. The spectators
pressed around,--but, breaking through the throng, came the fair nymphs
aforesaid. One pillowed his head upon her arm, and drenched his dusty
brow with tears; her comrade wrung her hands, and shrieked for 'help!
lest he die!' The crowd, at a respectful distance, looked on; venturing
a whisper, now and then, to the purport that 'it was as good as a play,
and cost nothing.' Warm brine and sounding air are poor medicines for a
cracked skull; and the sufferer remaining insensible, a frantic damsel
was seen, vaulting over tomb-stones, bonnetless and shawlless, on the
most direct route to the gate. A gallant man of healing was passing,
and him she conducted to the prostrate hero. Handkerchiefs and scarfs
were stripped from necks and arms to staunch the trickling gore; and
supported by his affectionate nurses, the interesting youth gained
his carriage. Miss Ross returned home with swollen eyes and downcast
air. The afternoon, evening, and most of the next day were spent in
retirement. This was a grief sympathy could not assuage."
"Did she tell you of it?" asked one.
"No. Madam Rumor is my informant, and her story is vouched for by a
gentleman, an eye witness of the catastrophe."
In this lamentable caricature, there was so little truth, and so much
less wit, that it should have been beneath the contempt of her, at
whom it was aimed; but the ridicule was _public_. Her bonnet hid her
face, but the angry blood surged over her neck in crimson streams.
There was vengeful fury enough in the grasp, which drove the nails
through the paper she held, into the palm, to have swept the tittering
clique from the earth at a stroke. Whatever purpose of retaliation
sprang into life, it was nipped in the bud. The desk of the supposed
artist was in a niche; and the projecting wall concealed it from the
view of the party. He was almost in front of her; and her burning
eyes were arrested as they encountered his. There was no scorn, or
none for her, in that regard; but warning, interest and inquiry were
blended with such earnestness, that, like the charmed bird, he could
not move or look away. Even when he cast his eyes upon his work again,
she did not, at once, withdraw hers. He might have been thirty; was
pale, and not handsome, yet anything but ordinary in his appearance.
If his countenance had betrayed emotion the previous moment, it
vanished as his pen began to move. He was the automaton scribe, and the
subdued Ida, drawing her shawl around her, quitted the place, without
exchanging a syllable with any one.
The spell of the silent rebuke was speedily dissolved, yet she was
grateful that it had restrained her hasty retort. The heated in a
quarrel, are always the defeated. Morbid sensibility is the engenderer
of suspicion,--and vice versa; the two act and react, until a smile, a
look, is the foundation of weeks--it may be, of years of wretchedness.
To such a mind, ridicule is a venomed dart, piercing and poisoning,
and pride but inflames the wound. Dr. Ballard had showed the courtesy
of a gentleman, and the kindness of a friend in his intercourse with
Ida. Unconsciously, she had come to like, almost to trust him--and this
was at an end. He, and he, only, could have provided the outline of
the narrative she had heard. She set her teeth hard, as she recalled
her agitated greeting at the gate; and his composure; her subsequent
offers of assistance--"officious"--she called them now,--and his calm
acceptance. But it was base and unmanly, to make capital for sport of
the weakness of a woman--a child, compared with himself! "They are
all alike--I must believe it! with hearts rotten to the core! Heaven
have mercy on me, until I am as callous as they!" And when he called,
at some personal inconvenience, to impart the intelligence of her
"protege's" recovery, she met him with a haughtiness that surprised
and angered him; and his futile attempt to throw down the barrier,
resulted in his cutting short the interview. He had told Mr. Read
of Ida's adventure; but not in the spirit in which its events were
coarsely retailed. He lauded her kindness and self-possession, in terms
too extravagant to suit the zero humanity of her guardian's narrow
soul;--as he wound up the story to his daughter--he "was not a man
to get up a fit of heroics, and had no idea that Ballard had so much
palaver about him."
If his vile doctrine were indeed true, if all men were alike, and like
him, who of us would not unite in the orphan's prayer--would not cry,
with her, in despairing bitterness, "Heaven have mercy upon us, until
we are as callous as they!"
She had no mercy upon herself. There was an unholy joy in ruthlessly
trampling upon the few flowers that grew in her path: the ebullition
of a desperate despair, as when one is tortured by a raging tooth, he
probes, and grinds and shakes the offending member, self-inflicting yet
more exquisite pain, but bearing it better, under the insane impression
that he is wreaking revenge upon its cause; saying, with the poor
Dutchman, "ache on! ache on! I can stand it as long as you can!" And
"ache on! ache on!" said Ida to her heart, "the nerve will be dead by
and by!"
We consign to the lower pit of darkness the bloody demons, cloaked in
priestly stole, and "speaking great, swelling words of wisdom" and
peace, who tore limb from limb upon the rack, in "zeal for the Faith!"
but for him who pours out his atheistical misanthropy,--deadening,
petrifying the soul, and blinding the eyes, until in this, our
lovely earth, they see but a mighty charnel-house, full of nameless
abominations; who traduces God, in despising His noblest work, and
says: "Behold the Truth!" the murderer of the _heart_,--what shall be
his portion!
Carry Carleton's liking for the company of "that proud, disagreeable
girl," and her defence of her when attacked, was a nine days' wonder.
True, "she loved everybody," but here she manifested partiality, far
more than accorded with her schoolmates' notions of justice and reason.
Carry was unwavering. "I like her," said she, one recess, when her
corps of affectionate teazers hung on and about her. "It wounds me
to hear you speak disparagingly of her. You must admit that she has
redeeming traits. She is one of our best scholars, and if inaccessible,
is upright and honorable, and will not stoop to do an ignoble action."
"Yes," said Emma Glenn, happy to add her mite of praise, "Don't you
remember she found Julia Mason's composition behind a desk in the cloak
room, and brought it in examination day, although she knew that she was
her most dangerous competitor for the prize? I'm afraid I should have
been tempted to keep it, or leave it where it was."
"I should not be afraid to trust you, dear," said Carry. "You are
too ready to commend such conduct in others, to act a contrary part
yourself. As for Ida--have any of you reflected how much of what you
call her pride you are accountable for?"
"We! how!" was the unanimous exclamation.
"I know my misdeeds are legion, and my good works, like Parson Wilkins'
text, 'way off and hard to find,' but 'evil,' indeed, as well as 'few,
have been the years of my pilgrimage,' if I had anything to do with the
'formation of Ida Ross' character!" said Ellen Morris, clasping her
hands deprecatingly.
"Ellen! Ellen!" remonstrated Carry, "think what effect a remark like
that would produce! Would it increase her confidence in you or us?
Would she not avoid us more then ever? She is an orphan, and should be
dealt with more charitably, than if her feelings had expanded in a home
like yours."
"You do not believe she could love anybody!" said one of the group.
"Certainly I do, and I mean she shall love me. You would make the same
resolution, if you knew her as I do."
"An idea strikes me, Carry," said the incorrigible Ellen.--"She and we
have affinity for each other--water and oil--you are the alkali, which
is to reconcile us; we shall be a soap manufactory, to cleanse and
regenerate the world."
"A little vinegar facilitates the process, does it not?" asked Carry,
good-humoredly.
"You have come to a poor market for it, my good Alkali; upon second
thoughts, you must leave me out of the combination altogether--salt,
Attic, particularly, being detrimental to the integrity of the article
in question."
"Soap boiling and Attica!" said Anna Talbot, who was reading a little
apart, "your conversation takes an extended range to-day, young ladies."
"Both are warm places," returned Ellen. "Our imaginations needed
thawing after perching so long upon the North Pole, _id est_, Ida Ross."
"You have offended Carry," said Emma, apprehensively, as the former
walked towards the other room.
"Not offended, but grieved," she replied, with sweet gravity. "I should
not love Ellen as I do, if I did not believe her heart to be oftener in
the right place than her tongue."
She passed into the recitation room, and there, her head bent upon
a desk, was Ida! Carry was transfixed with dismay. The door was
a-jar--she had heard it all! But the relaxed limbs--the unmoving
figure--was she then asleep? A minute's stay confirmed this opinion;
and greatly relieved, she tripped lightly out by another door. Ida
did not sleep. She had left the larger room at the close of morning
recitations, seeking in the comparative quiet of this, some ease from a
severe headache. She did not think of concealment. After the gossip of
the thoughtless circle turned upon herself, she still supposed that her
vicinity was known; that their pretended unconsciousness was a covering
for a renewal of mortifications. To move would have been matter for
triumph, she was not disposed to supply. So unjust does suspicion make
us!
Carry's disinterested vindication electrified her. To risk the
forfeiture of the favor of the many, for one who had never conferred
an obligation--whose good will could profit her nothing! in her
experience, the act lacked a parallel. "Can it be," she thought, with
stirring pulses, "can it be that I may yet find a friend?" then, as
Carry's "I am resolved she shall love me," reached her, she bowed in
thankfulness. "I will trust! will stake my last hope of ever meeting a
kindred spirit upon this throw--will let her love me if she will, so
help me God!" It was no light vow.
Carry's intrusion was unobserved; she was only sensible of the
incalescence of her frozen heart. The afternoon was cloudy, and her
maid was surprised to see her mistress preparing for her promenade.
"Indeed, Miss Ida, you'll get caught in the shower; 'twont be no little
sprinkle, neither. When its starts to rain this time o' year, it never
holds up."
"Oh, well!" returned Ida, familiarly, "if we have another deluge, I
may as well be out of doors as in. But give me my cloak, Rachel, I must
have a short run before it sets in."
Josephine crossed the hall as she was going out. She stared, but made
no remark upon her unseasonable excursion. It was less wonderful
than the smile and nod she received. "It is pleasant," said Ida to
herself, "yet they talked of rain!" But the storm was not to be
delayed by inward sunshine. The smoky fog grew denser; through the
ominous calm which pervaded the city, the roaring of the distant
"Falls" was distinctly audible; cows stood, solemnly herded together,
the vapor from their nostrils scarcely thicker than the surrounding
atmosphere; and an occasional rain-drop trickling down their roughened
hides. Then the pavement was spotted with the precursors of the
prognosticated deluge, and a dash of spray into Ida's face restored
her to the perception of her actual position: a mile from home, night
and a tempest approaching. Ere a dozen steps were retraced, she was
met by the shower,--November rain, cutting and numbing as hail. Her
veil, flimsy defence for her face, was dripping in a moment, and the
water streamed in miniature cascades from her bonnet and shoulders.
Bewildered and dizzy, she sprang, without a thought, except the
instinct of self-preservation, into the shelter of a friendly porch.
She laughed, despite her uneasiness at her situation. "Wet, not
quite to the skin, but more damp than is comfortable; sans umbrella,
over-shoes, carriage or servant, and where, I cannot precisely
determine."
"Walk in, _do!_" said a pleasant voice behind her. A lady was holding
the open door. "I thank you," Ida began, when a figure glanced out of
the entry. "Why, Ida! my dear creature! how wet you are! don't stand
there a moment. I am so glad you ran in! This is my sister, Mrs.
Dana--my friend, Miss Ross--now we will go directly up stairs, and
take off your damp things!" and in the confusion of congratulations
and regrets, Ida did not know where she was, until she was seated in
Carry's room; both sisters occupied in divesting her of such portions
of her apparel, as were likely, by their humidity, to endanger her
health.
"You are very kind," she said; "but I cannot wait to have these dried.
I must go home."
"Impossible!" cried the impulsive Carry. "I will not hear of it. Just
make up your mind to stay in your present quarters until clear weather."
"Let me insist upon your staying, Miss Ross;" said Mrs. Dana. "I will
send a messenger to your friends to inform them of your safety."
"She will stay," said Carry, looking very positive.
Ida yielded with secret pleasure. Her guardian angel must have guided
her into this haven. Mrs. Dana was Carry's senior by ten years or more,
and resembled her more in voice and manner, than feature. They had the
same kind eyes and dimpling smile. Having seen her guest comfortable,
she gave her into Carry's charge, and went to forward her message to
Mr. Read. "How it rains!" said Carry, drawing aside the curtain. "It is
lucky you came when you did. Did you know we lived here?"
"No, it was entirely accidental. I was walking, and did not notice the
clouds until the shower came; then I took refuge in the nearest house."
"A happy accident for me," said Carry. "I despaired of ever persuading
you to visit me. This storm was sent for my express benefit. Sister
and I are never tired of each other's company; but the little ones
demand much of her time; and brother John--Mr. Dana, often brings home
writing, or is detained at the store late at night, in the busy season,
and I am rather lonely."
"You are bent upon convincing me that all the obligation is on your
side," returned Ida: "but compare the mermaid-like fright which shocked
you, with the decent young lady before you now, and recollect that my
gratitude is proportionate to the improvement."
A pretty little girl, about five years old, crept into the room.
"Come to aunt, Elle!" said Carry. "And speak to this lady."
The child came up timidly to Ida, and slid her plump hand into hers.
She did not struggle, as she lifted her into her lap, but looked
steadfastly at her with her soft black eyes. "What is your name?" asked
Ida.
"Elinor Dana," she answered, in her clear, childish voice.
"Elinor!" repeated Ida, and the little one felt herself pressed more
closely to her breast."
"Do you like it?" inquired Carry.
"It was my _mother's_ name!" was the low reply. Elle put up her lips
for a kiss. She saw a pained look flit over the countenance of the
visitor, and administered the only panacea she possessed.
"Is she your sister's oldest child?" asked Ida, repaying the caress.
"Yes. She has two younger; a boy and a girl. The babe is my namesake."
"My brother is named Charles Arthur; after uncle Charley and uncle
Arthur," ventured Elle.
"And you love him very dearly,--do you not?" said Ida.
"Yes ma'am; I love papa and mamma, and aunt Carry, and uncle Charley,
and uncle Arthur, and grandpa, and sister and brother," said the child,
running over the names with a volubility that showed how used she was
to the repetition.
"Will you love me too?" asked Ida. The anxiety with which she awaited
the reply will not be sneered at by those who have been, like her,
starvelings in affection.
"Yes, you too, but I don't know what to call you."
"My name is Ida."
"Miss Ida, or cousin Ida?"
"Cousin!" exclaimed Ida, catching at the word. "Call me cousin!"
"Elle claims as relatives, all whom she loves," observed Carry; "and we
encourage her in the practice. Miss is formal; and the absence of any
such prefix gives a disrespectful air to a child's address."
"She speaks of her uncles. Have you brothers?"
"She alludes to Mr. Dana's brothers," said Carry, with a slight blush,
which Ida remembered afterwards. "They were wards of my father's; and
we regard them as a part of the family."
Ida amused herself by coaxing forth Elle's prattle; and related, as
reward for her sociability, a marvellous fairy tale, which expanded
her eyes to their utmost circle, and interested even Carry. Mrs. Dana
entered at the finale.
"Papa has come, Elle, and would be happy to see Miss Ross. Tea is
ready, too. I hope she has not annoyed you,"--to Ida.
"Annoyed! oh no, ma'am! we are good friends, and have had a nice talk,
have we not, darling?"
Playing with a child is a very puerile amusement--what room is there
for the exercise of the reasoning faculties; what opportunity for
gaining new views of the world or of truth? Still Ida was happier, and
she was silly enough to think, wiser. A germ was set, which should be
developed by and by.
Mr. Dana was in the supper-room. He was tall and dark, grave-looking
when silent; but as he acknowledged the introduction to herself, and
stooped to kiss Elle, his smile rendered him exceedingly handsome. The
proud tenderness of his wife was beautiful to behold; and he unbent all
that was stern in his nature, in her presence, or Carry's. The repast
went off delightfully. There were no sarcastic flings at society and
individuals, and clash of combat, imperfectly drowned by courteous
phraseology, such as characterized similar occasions at Mr. Read's.
Free to act and speak, without dread of criticism, Ida acquitted
herself well. She and her entertainers were equally charmed; and Carry
sat by, contented with the success of her benevolent efforts. Mr.
Dana's business required his attention immediately after supper; Mrs.
Dana sat with the girls awhile, then repaired to her nursery. "We shall
not be troubled by visitors to-night," said Carry. "What say you to
adjourning to our chamber? It is more snug than these empty parlors."
They visited the nursery in their way. Elle opened her eyes as her
friend kissed her coral lips, but their lids fell again directly, and
her "good night" died in a drowsy murmur. The boy was sleeping soundly,
and little Carry lay quietly wakeful upon her mother's lap. "These are
my treasures," said the fond parent, smiling at Ida's admiration of the
group.
"Treasures she would not barter for the wealth of both Indies," added
Carry. "You are a diplomatist, Ida, you have found sister's blind side
by praising her pets."
"You, who are so accustomed to these pretty playthings, do not know how
lovely they are to one who is not so favored," replied Ida.
"Ah! there you are in error. No one can love the sweet angels as I do,
except the mother who bore them. Now," continued she, when they were in
their room, taking from a wardrobe two dressing-gowns, "I move that we
don these, and make ourselves comfortable generally."
And cozily comfortable they appeared, ensconced in armchairs, in front
of that most sparkling of coal-fires; a waiter of apples and nuts sent
up by thoughtful Mrs. Dana, on a stand between them; shutters and
curtains closed, and the storm roaring and driving without.
"I no longer wonder at your cheerfulness, since I have seen your home,"
said Ida. "All the good things of life are mingled in your cup."
"You are right. I am very happy, but not more so than hundreds of
others. My contentment would be grievously marred, if I suspected this
was not so."
"Fraternizing again. I have reflected and observed much since our talk
in the cemetery, and am almost persuaded that you have chosen the
easiest method of living; that 'where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to
be wise.' Your system has brought most pleasure thus far, whether it
will endure the test of time and experience, is another question."
"You alarm me," answered Carry. "Your vague hints excite my curiosity,
yet do not indicate the description of dangers I am to encounter. Let
us understand each other--as the Methodist class-leaders have it, 'tell
our experiences.'"
"Mine may be briefly summed up," said Ida, sadly.
'The frigid and unfeeling thrive the best;
And a warm heart in this cold world, is like
A beacon light;--waiting its feeble light
Upon the wintry deep, that feels it not--
Trembling with each pitiless blast that blows,
'Till its faint fire is spent.'"
"You have known this?" asked Carry.
"In all its bitterness!"
"And the writer felt, or thought he felt the force of their meaning,
when he penned the lines. Have you ever met with a warm heart besides
your own?"
"Yes, one--the home of excellence and affection."
"Then, 'this cold world' has produced three, to whom its biting
atmosphere was uncongenial--may there not be more? I look into my
bosom, and discover there charity and good-will towards men; why should
I deny the existence of like feelings in those who are partakers of the
same nature, in all other respects?"
"Fair logic; but let us examine facts. Take an example so frequently
cited, as to appear hacknied, yet none the less true to nature. Your
wealth, or situation, or influence enables you to benefit those who
style themselves your friends. You are courted, beloved, popular. A
change in these adventitious circumstances alters everything. With
unabated desires for love or distinction, you are a clod of the
earth, a cumberer of the ground. The stream of adulation flows in
another direction; former acquaintances pass you with averted eyes, or
chilling recognitions; you are sought by no new ones. Men do not go
to a barren tree, or a dried fountain. You shake your head;--this is
not a fancy sketch. Listen to a leaf from my history. Until two years
ago I never received a harsh word, or an unloving look. My mother was
the benefactress of the poor, for miles around, and I was her almoner.
Blessings and smiles hailed me wherever I went. I had no conception
of sorrows she could not alleviate; and I remember thinking--foolish
child that I was! that her empire of hearts was worth the glory of an
Alexander or Napoleon. She died! and where are the fruits of her loving
kindness? If her memory lives in another breast than that of her only
child, I do not know it!"
There were tears in Carry's eyes, already, and the slight tremor of her
speech was grateful music to the orphan's ear.
"You quitted your home, and all who knew her, and came to a strange
city, where it was necessary for you to earn love as she had done. I
have no doubt, nay, I am sure, that by the creatures of her bounty,
her memory is preserved as a holy thing; and that they are ready to
extend the affection they had for her, to her child. Here, she was
comparatively unknown. To carry out your metaphor of the tree, the
graft cut from the parent stock must bear fruit for itself. I know the
world is generally selfish, but I am convinced that our reprobation of
it often arises from the growth of a similar weakness in ourselves. May
it not be that the dearth of love, so painfully felt by you, proceeds
in part, from the ignorance of your associates as to the real state of
your mind, or from an exacting spirit in yourself! Pardon my freedom;
it is meant in kindness."
"I thank you for your candor. The truth, if unpalatable, cannot offend."
"Then, trusting to your forbearance, I will go more into particulars.
To curry favor, in school, or elsewhere, is as repugnant to me as to
you; but do we sacrifice self-respect, by swaying to the popular voice,
when no abandonment of principle is required? or play the hypocrite,
in concealing prejudices and humors that conflict with the sentiments
of others; in uniting, with apparent willingness, in the common cause?
We cannot like--we may help all. I say it in humility--there is one
rule by which I do not fear to be judged: 'Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye even so to them.'"
"I understand your allusions. You think my reserve proceeds from pride
alone. What if I were to tell you"--and her voice sank, "that haughty
as I seem, I would cringe--lie in the dust--to the most inferior of my
daily companions, if she would give me love. Believe me, it is this
unquenchable thirst--this longing for what is unattainable by me, which
has forced me to court its opposite--hate! I will not lay my heart bare
to those who would spurn it. It is said, the hind seeks an obscure
covert, to die from the wound for which his unhurt comrades would
shun him. You cannot know--it would be improper for me to recount my
fruitless endeavors to win the coveted blessing, at any price, even the
loss of the self-respect you imagine I value so highly. It is enough
that experiences, such as I hope may never be yours, have taught me to
entrench myself in my fortress of self-confidence, from whence I hurl
disdain upon besieging powers. I am thought independent; the world has
made me so. No woman is independent from nature or choice."
Carry looked musingly in the fire. "I am not certain," she said, "that
I have a right to repeat what was told me, by one who never thought
that you would hear it. I do not see, how ever, that it can do harm,
and I wish to show you, that I am not ignorant of some of your trials.
A friend of mine, whose name I am not at liberty to mention, was in
F----'s painting-rooms on the afternoon of your visit. The artist was
an acquaintance, and having letters to write, he offered to occupy
his desk while Mr. F---- should seek recreation. He was an auditor of
Josephine's Read's garbled story of our church-yard adventure; he had
heard a true statement from me. Had my name been used, as it would have
been if she had known who your companion was, he would have spoken.
As it was, his indignation nearly got the better of his prudence. He
identified you as the heroine of the tale, by the significant gestures
and winks of the ill-mannered party, and commended your equanimity and
forbearance."
"He did not add, that his timely warning suppressed the responsive
storm?" said Ida.
"Why! did he speak?"
"No. He only looked, but such a look!"
Carry laughed. "He is a strange mortal! But to return to yourself.
These exhibitions of depravity and cold-heartedness, are not adapted to
raise our estimate of mankind; yet even then, there was _one_ present,
who was on the side of right and humanity; who saw no cause for mirth
in the sufferings of a child, or the anxieties of two inexperienced
girls."
"Dr. Ballard did, it seems," said Ida, the gloomy look returning.
"Did Josephine hear of the affair from him?"
"I suppose so. Who else knew it?"
"True. But is it not more probable that she gave it her own coloring,
than that he made a jest of us? We will lean towards mercy in our
judgment."
"You are a veritable alchemist," said Ida. "You would ferret out gold,
even in the dross of my character."
"Try me!" replied Carry. "But bear in mind, nothing is to be secreted;
no hard thoughts or jaundiced investigations. All must be cast into the
crucible."
"And tried by what fire?" inquired Ida.
"Love!" said the warm-hearted girl, kneeling beside her, and winding
her arms about her waist. "Love me, Ida! and if I prove heartless and
deceitful, I will cease to plead for my brothers and sisters."
The glad tears that impearled her bright locks, replied.