And "my plans are made" became the law of the household,--Josephine excepted, who had her schemes also. There was an ominous calm. Mr. Read mended gradually. His daughter's resentment outlived his; but his pride was as inflexible as hers. She would not enter his chamber, and he would not recall her. His wife performed mechanically a routine of duties, self-enjoined, as covering all that could be required of her. The residue of her time was devoted to the world, out of which, she did not seem to _live_. She held her position as leader of the ton. She was the best-bred, best-dressed, and best-educated woman of her circle. No party was complete without her; and none vied with hers, in elegance and agreeableness. People gossipped, and prophecied, and pitied her "poor old husband"--courted and aped her. Ida had made a public profession of her faith, and was humbly "waiting." Her health did not now debar her from mingling in society; and she could discern neither wisdom nor piety in a hermit's life. Her re-appearance amongst them was hailed with acclamations by most of her acquaintances. Some were shy for a time, thanks to Josephine's exposition of her "strait-laced notions;" but her cheerful frankness banished their reserve; and if not so noisily admired, she was more beloved than in her palmy days. She was one evening at a "sociable" at Mrs. Morris', the cynosure of a group, the liveliest in the room, for it comprised Ellen, Mr. Thornton, Charley, Mr. Germaine, Mr. Villet, and Richard Copeland. Charley was relating an amusing story; and Ida's peculiarly contagious laugh created as much merriment as the anecdote. "Miss Ross is ever happy," said Mr. Villet. "Your being _devote_ does not make you sad, morose--_comme a l'ordinaire_." A glance of apprehension was exchanged by some of the circle; and Ida colored, as she replied, smiling, "I do not know why it should, Mr. Villet." The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders: "Nor I! I do not comprehend these affairs myself, but it is usual, I believe, for the visible visage to elongate with the expansion of the--_qu'est ce que c'est_?--grace in the soul." There was a laugh. Charley and Ida were grave; and Mr. Villet's politeness took the alarm. "I entreat your pardon, Miss Ross; I did not meditate an offence." "You have given none," answered she. "You would not knowingly make sport of what you must respect. Religion is not gloomy, nor is it ridiculous." "Its professors, with some honorable exceptions, are one or the other," said Richard. "This is their misfortune or failing, not the fault of the system," returned Ida. "Mortal nature is fallible, Mr. Copeland."