"Very!" said Ida, and she _felt_ it. Alice said an affectionate--the rest a polite farewell;--they drove off;--and she went very quietly to her chamber--quietly--though her hand was pressed hard upon her heart; and her throat ached, as if iron fingers were tightened around it;--and while they were dancing, she was kneeling before that precious Bible, forgetting sorrow and self in its sublime teachings;--hours before their return, she slept, peacefully, happily--such sleep as even in this life "He giveth His beloved." CHAPTER XXIII. Sunday was rainy, and Ida was deprived of the opportunity of judging whether Miss Arnold's church behaviour was as Mr. Copeland had portrayed it. But she was to learn how just to life another part of his description was. The morning, yawned through in the other apartments, passed swiftly in hers, in reading, study, and blessed communion with her Heavenly Friend. A low tap was heard at the door, and her "come in," answered by Miss Arnold. "Pray, keep your seat," said she, closing the door with a shiver, as the cold draught from the passage blew over her; "I have ransacked the parlor book-case in vain for Sabbath reading, and Alice said you could probably supply me." "My little library is at your service," said Ida, parting the curtains before a handsome set of shelves. "You have quite an extensive collection;" remarked Miss Arnold, patronisingly. She did not ask her to help her in the selection, and Ida returned to her chair. Miss Arnold pulled out one and another slowly, so as to consume as much time as possible in the occupation. Ida glanced up from time to time, to see what choice she made. A modest volume, presented by Mr. Lacy, stood near the centre of the top shelf; and she looked up once as Miss Arnold was in the act of taking it down. She watched her with suspended breath. She read the title and title-page, and shutting it, raised her arm to replace it; but a look of recollection flitted over her brow, and she re-opened it--at the fly-leaf. Ida dropped her eyes instantly to the page before her, yet she saw as plainly as with her bodily organs of vision, that after reading what was written there,--"Miss Ida Ross, with the regards of M. L.," a gaze of keen inquisition rested upon herself, that the inscription was thoughtfully examined,--then the subject matter of the book, which was afterwards restored to its place, and with another, selected at hazard, her visitor moved gracefully towards her. "You have been so kind to me--to us--during our stay here, that I am encouraged to beg an additional favor." Her silvery voice had a new tone, and it was as if a malicious spirit repeated to Ida,--"If you are worth winning, she is the tender, love-beseeching girl." Hitherto, her conduct had afforded decisive evidence that she was _not_ worth the trouble. She drove the whisperer away and answered politely, "I shall be happy to oblige you."