"I have come home to die, mother," said she, as they lifted her out, and fainted in their arms. In the midst of their consternation, the family pride of the faithful underlings was stubborn. "Their young mistress should not be carried to the overseer's;" and Aunt Judy, the keeper of the keys, hurried off to unlock the house doors. Ida had a cloudy remembrance of awakening in her mother's chamber, and of a gleaming fancy, that she was once more a child, aroused from a horrid, horrid dream, then her senses forsook her, and there was a wide hiatus in memory. It was night when she awoke again; she was in the same room;--a fire burned in the chimney, and cast fantastic shapes upon the ceiling. Crouched in the corner of the fire-place, was a dusky figure, whose audible breathing sounded loudly through the apartment. Her slumbers were not very profound, however, for she sprang up at the feeble call--"Rachel!" "Miss Ida! honey! what do you want?" "How long have I slept? my head feels so strange!" "That's because you've been sick, honey." "What is the matter with me?" "Fever, dear--you caught it in them dreadful mountains, and have been laid up for four weeks. But you'll git well, now--you were out of your head 'most all the time--and the doctor says you mustn't talk." Ida desisted, too weak to disobey. With vague curiosity, she followed her with her eyes, as she smoothed the counterpane, pushed up the bed on one side, and patted it down on the other; then she put the "chunks" together upon the hearth, and there was the clinking of spoons and glasses at a table. "Here's your drink, Miss Ida," she said, lifting her head with a care that proved her a practised nurse. It was cool and palatable, and the heavy lids sank in natural slumber. Mr. Grant (the overseer) and his wife had not been remiss in their duty to the sick girl. She had the best medical attendance the county afforded; and Mr. Read was written to at the commencement of the attack; the letter was unanswered--probably not received. Rachel was "sure Miss Jenny or Miss Carry would come in a minute, if they knew she was sick;" but was ignorant of the address of either. Their nursing might have been more skilful, but it could not have exceeded hers in tenderness. She took turns with Mrs. Grant in watching, but she never left the room except for her meals. She was amply repaid for her labor of love by the improvement which henceforward was apparent in her patient. Her raptures awoke no responsive harmony in Ida's bosom. Her physician was a son of Mr. Hall, the old minister, who had gone to his rest. "You must exert yourself, Miss Ida," said he. "Have you walked yet?" "No, sir." "Cannot you do it?" "I don't know, indeed, sir." "But, my dear child, nature cannot do everything; we must aid her. It is as binding upon us to save our own lives, as those of others." "When they are worth saving."