Alone. Marion Harland

of falling waters betrayed the modest brooklet, and it widened into a pretty pool; the moon's silver shield upon its bosom. The thicket became taller, and not so dense; tulip trees and oaks in place of the aquatic undergrowth; and between them the fleeting glimmerings of the sky were, to her, an army of pale spectres, marching noiselessly past; no halting or wavering; on, on, in unbroken cavalcade, "down to the dead." And memory, at fancy's call, produced the long roll of those who had gone to the world of shades;—the master-spirits of all ages;—the oppressed and the oppressor;—the lovely and the loved;—had joined that phantom procession;—how few leaving even the legacy of a name to earth! With the Persian Poet, her heart cried out—"Where are they?" and echo answered—"Where are they?" And thought poured on thought, under the weird influence of that enchanted night, until the shadowy host was the one reality in the landscape; and one and another beckoned and waved to her, as they defiled by. She came near shrieking—so startled was she—as a horseman reined up at the window. The moon was at his back; but showed every lineament of her countenance. He raised his hat. "Miss Ross, I believe. I fear my sudden appearance has alarmed you."

      "Arthur! my boy! how are you?" exclaimed Dr. Carleton, extending his hand, which was as eagerly seized. "Miss Ross—Dr. Dana."

      "Miss Ross will excuse me for having anticipated the introduction," said he, bowing again, and rode to the opposite side of the carriage. The greetings there were more quiet; but it needed not Ida's delicate ear to detect the feeling in the voices which tried to say common-place things. Arthur had much to say to the doctor, and once in a while a remark for her—Carry remaining in the back-ground.

      "Were you uneasy that we did not arrive?" asked Dr. Carleton.

      "Not uneasy—but restless; and to relieve my impatience rode out to meet you."

      He was first on this side—now on that—as the highway afforded him room; but Ida could not get a view of his face. His figure was good, and he sat his horse well;—upon these facts, and such impressions as were made by a pleasant voice and gentlemanly address, she was obliged to form her opinion of his personal appearance, until more light should be shed upon the subject. The house appeared, approached by a shady lane, and so embowered in trees, that only the chimneys were visible from the main road. Carry's tongue was unloosed as she bounded into the midst of the sable throng that swarmed about the carriage. Arthur exclaimed merrily at the clamor of blessings and inquiries.

      "Will you accept me as your attendant, Miss Ross? The ceremony of reception will last some time."

      But Carry was in the piazza as soon as they were.

      "Thank you, Arthur, for taking charge of her. Welcome to Poplar-grove, dear Ida! May you be as happy here as I have been!"

      "Amen!" said Dr. Carleton and Arthur, heartily.

      Carry acted like a wild creature all the evening. She half-carried Ida to her chamber, and kissed her over and over.

      "Now, darling!" she ran on, strewing their shawls and bonnets in all directions. "You see I have no idea of putting you off, company style, in another room. You will be with me morning, noon, and night. My dear, dear room! how natural it looks! and to think I am never to leave it again!"

      "Bless your heart!" said a middle-aged mulatto woman, whose mild and pleasing face struck Ida as much as her motherly kindness to her young mistress, "You are not half so glad to get back as we are to have you here."

      "Hush, Mammy! you will make me cry. Comb my hair—will you? Not that I do not believe you could do it, Sally; but it used to be Mammy's work."

      "Thoughtful of others still," reflected Ida, as the girl Sally displayed a double row of ivories, at Carry's apology. "Can nothing make her selfish?"

      "We won't waste time by an elaborate toilet, dear," said Carry, seeing Ida deliberating upon two dresses. "Father will be too much engaged with his supper to notice our dress. Wear the plain white one; it is very becoming; and remember, you are in the back-woods."

      Arthur was in the parlor when they descended. He looked as happy as Carry, and "almost as good," thought Ida. She was not de trop; it might have been a brother and sister who strove to convince her that this, their home, was hers for the time-being. The supper-table was set with taste and profusion. Ida wondered whether the ménage were entirely controlled by coloured servants. She learned afterwards that "Mammy," trained by Mrs. Carleton, and until that lady's death, her constant attendant, was housekeeper.

      "You have not much affection for a city life, Miss Ida," said Arthur, continuing a conversation commenced in the parlor.

      "No. I am country-bred, and cherish a preference for the scenes of my childhood. Perhaps," she said, ingenuously, "the fault is in myself. I did not want to live in Richmond, and determined not to like it."

      "And are your aversions so strong that the manifold attractions of the metropolis cannot shake them? or, are you countrified upon principle?"

      "I have not given the city a fair trial. It has occurred to me lately that my weariness of it proceeded from monotony rather than satiety. There is little variety in school life."

      "Except when we regard it as the world in miniature," said Arthur. "It is different, doubtless, in 'Young Lady Establishments,' but we boys contrived to maintain a healthy circulation, one way or another."

      "Is it not a popular fallacy that school-days are the happiest of one's life?" asked Ida.

      "Unquestionably," rejoined he, promptly. "As well say that Spring is the farmer's happiest season. He has the pleasures of hope, the delight of viewing his whitening harvests in futuro; but there is severe, unromantic drudgery; suspense and boding fears for the result. The 'harvest home' for me!"

      "And when is that!" questioned Ida.

      "Now!" said he, with emphasis.

      "What do you mean?" inquired Carry.

      "That you and Miss Ida begin to reap from this date. To dispense with this inconvenient metaphor, your actions will be the proof of what your lessons have been; every day your knowledge and principles will be brought into play—you will be binding up sheaves of worthy or of evil deeds."

      "You are trying to terrify us," said Carry. "Don't you wish yourself at school again, Ida!"

      "Are you sorry you're a-goin' to turn out!" replied Ida, in a peculiar tone.

      "Oh, Celestia!" exclaimed Carry, with a burst of laughter.

      "Who? what?" said her father.

      "One of our school-mates, father; who, hearing another say that she was sorry to quit school, went through the house the day we were dismissed, asking each one confidentially, 'Are you sorry you're a-goin to turn out?' grief at such an event being, in her code, a more heinous sin than to dance at a funeral."

      "Who was she?" asked Arthur.

      "Miss Pratt—Celestia Pratt."

      "Daughter of the member from A——?"

      "The same—what do you know of her?"

      "I met her once at a ball," he replied.

      "Were you introduced?" cried both girls in a breath.

      "Yes; and danced with her."

      "Enough!" said Carry. "We will not pursue the subject."

      "As you please," he returned; "but if I am not mistaken, as Sir Roger says, though with a different meaning, 'much could be said on both sides.'"

CHAPTER VIII.

       Table of Contents

      Poplar-Grove was comparatively a modern place; having been built by the present proprietor at the time of his marriage. The house was of brick, large and commodious; and flanked by neat out-houses and servants' quarters, presenting an