and she had come in from a tour of the negro cabins, and a visit to her mother's grave, to spend the last twilight in the room in which she was born--in which her mother had died. The November blast howled in the chimney;--here it was the music of early days;--in Richmond, it would be so dreary! She was not gloomy, although the firelight glistened upon cheeks wet with tears;--she was not going away, as she had come--alone; still she was sad at quitting her retreat, and in the prospect of the temptations awaiting her. There would be trials, too--trials of faith and patience and charity--and trials of feeling--what if she should be found wanting! But a whisper tranquilised her--"Fear not--_I_ am with thee!" Mrs. Grant opened the door. She held a lamp whose rays blinded Ida's tender eyes. "A gentleman to see you, Miss Ida,--and as there was no fire in the drawing-room, I've asked him into the dining-room;" announced the dame, who was remarkable rather for sterling goodness, than for grace and discretion. The door of communication was wide open, and Ida had no alternative but to walk directly into the adjoining apartment. Charley Dana met her, ere she had advanced three steps beyond the doorway. He was so shocked at her altered appearance that he could not speak at once, but stood, pressing her hands in his, and gazing into her face with inexpressible solicitude and tenderness. She must make an exertion. "This is kind, Charley! Am I to flatter myself that you have turned out of your way to see me?" "No. I have looked neither to the right nor to the left. I came by the most direct route from Richmond. Sit down--you are not able to stand--and give an account of yourself. What in the name of all that is ridiculous and outrageous, brought you here alone, and has kept you here until the middle of the winter?" "Not so bad as that, Charley! It is only the last month of Autumn. I came, because I did not want to go North, and was pining for a sight of the old place; and have been sick ever since. But tell me of yourself. When did you return, and why have not you written to me?" "That is what I call 'iced!'" said Charley, with a laugh that sounded like former times. "Haven't I sent letters to every post-office in the Union, and not received a line in answer, since you parted company with Arthur and Carry? I arrived at home, ten days ago. Mr. Read 'presumed' you were 'yet in the country, and would be back when you were ready:' John and Jenny were in the dark; had written and inquired to no purpose: daily dispatches were pouring in from Arthur, certifying that Carry was nearly deranged with anxiety. Yesterday, I met Mr. Read, who told me you had been 'indisposed,' but would be down shortly. I asked your address, and here I am!" "You could not be more welcome anywhere; but how unaccountable that your letters miscarried!"