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.
CHAPTER VI.
"Teach me to gain hearts as you do!" Ida prayed, on the memorable evening of the storm, and Carry answered, blithely, "Love, and live for others!"
To her, natural disposition and practice made the task easy; for her pupil, it was arduous beyond her worst expectation. Her reputation was established; the wall she had erected between herself and her associates, was not to be undermined or scaled in a day. Her overtures of familiarity and service was unskilfully made; her very timidity construed into labored condescension. "It is a hopeless endeavor—they will never care for me!" said she, despondingly—once and again, and Carry still predicted—"Love will win love. Persevere!" The birth and growth of their attachment was remarkable. Dissimilar in mind; made more so in manner, by education and circumstances, there existed from the earliest stage of their friendship, perfect confidence in each other's affection. Carry had an infallible perception of genuine worth, hidden though it might be; and Ida clung drowningly to this last anchor—the sole tie that connected her with her race. Like most deep feelings, its current was noiseless. They were much together;—that was not strange, since their studies were the same. They had separate compartments of one desk; and none marked how often one book was conned by both; brown and fair curls mingling; and hands clasped in mute tenderness. Still less did they dream of the miraculous confluence of the sun-bright stream with the turbid torrent, and the wondrous music of their flow.
They were sitting thus one forenoon, when an assistant teacher drew near, and inquired if there were a vacant seat in their vicinity.
"A new scholar!" buzzed from fifty tongues; and the eyes of our two students strayed with the rest, to the door.
"Miss Pratt, young ladies!" introduced Mr. Purcell.
The girls arose, in conformance with their custom of reception, and bowed to the figure that followed him into the room. She was short and fat—"dumpy," in vulgar parlance; and so homely, as to countenance Ellen Morris' report to another department—"that the farmers in the neighborhood where she was 'riz,' had forwarded a petition, beseeching her to return, their corn having suffered greatly from the depredations of the crows since her departure; a thing unheard of, previously, in that part of the country." Her eyes were small and grey; her nose a ruddy "snub;" her lips curiously puckered up; and her skin might have owed its dappled red to the drippings of the carroty frizette overshadowing it. Her dress was showy and outré; a rainbow silk trebly-flounced; an embroidered lace cape; white kid gloves; a gold cable of startling dimensions; two bracelets of corresponding size, and different patterns; a brooch that matched neither, and out-glittered both; while blue, green, and red stones, with heavy settings, loaded the thick fingers to the knuckles.
Awe of their preceptor in some, good breeding in others, prevented any audible outbreak of amusement; but what school girl on the qui vive for diversion could keep from smiling? Mr. Purcell frowned as his eye travelled from one mirthful face to another, but a twinkle from Ellen Morris' dancing orbs neutralized the effort; and there was a perceptible twitch of his risible muscle as he rapped for "order." Ida and Carry had not escaped the contagion, an indulgence for which they reproached themselves.
"Poor girl!" whispered Carry. "She knows no better. She is to be pitied instead of laughed at." And Ida thought of her loneliness, upon her induction into these strange scenes. "I can lessen her discomfort, and, uninfluenced by prejudice, she will be thankful, perhaps will become fond of me."
Carry read her resolve in her thoughtful survey of the stranger; but while she loved and honoured her for it, her heart misgave her as she looked more attentively at the object of the purposed charity. Her physiognomy was not more irregular than unpleasant in its expression. She had opened a book, to be in the fashion in this as in every thing else, but her regards were wandering around the room in scared yet unblushing curiosity, flustered at being in a crowd, without a doubt as to her ability to cope with the best of them. Before the exercises of the forenoon were concluded, she was summoned to see a visitor, and did not reappear before intermission. Then Ida, having occasion to go into a small room, where bonnets and cloaks were hung, found her standing at the window, crying. She wheeled about sharply on hearing a step; her eyes swelled almost out of sight, and her whole appearance frightful in its disorder.
"What do you want?" she asked, querulously.
"I did not know you were here," said Ida. "What is the matter? Are you sick? Can I help you?"
"No. My pa's gone away!" A fresh burst.
"Gone! where?"
"Gone home! and I don't want to stay in this nasty, mean place. I don't want to go to school no more—nowhar!"
To hint at the obvious propriety of the deprecated measure was a temptation policy bade her resist, and Ida was actually nonplussed in casting about in her mind for appropriate consolation.
"You will like us better than you expect," she said, rather awkwardly; "and your father will come soon to see you again—will he not?"
"Yes; he's comin' next week. He is a representative!" mouthing the word magniloquently.
"A—what?"
"He