It was a trial to say farewell to that grave. She had visited it ere the sods joined over it; planted flowers there, and watered them with tears; had sat there at sunset, and watched the "long, bright pomp" he used to love; had learned there lessons of contentment and charity, and active usefulness, "while the day lasted." Next to one other green heap, where the willow shadows were dancing, this was the dearest spot on earth to her. She seemed brought so near to Lynn by the sight of it; and as she had kissed his white brow in death, she pressed her lips to the marble, with a murmur of regretful fondness--"Brother!" CHAPTER XXVIII. John Dana, his wife and little ones, attended Ida to Sunnybank. They arrived late at night, tired and sleepy; but their sunrise matins were caroled by Ida, as she sang a lively hymn in the breakfast-room, under the guest-chamber. She roamed briskly to and fro, rummaging side-boards and peeping into closets. "Jest like you used to do, Miss Ida!" said Aunt Judy. "Law me! this comes of faith. I allers said I should live to deliver up them keys into your hands. And you've come home for good, honey?" "Yes, Aunt Judy--come to stay with, and take care of you. That's 'for good,' isn't it?" "To be sure! It's a mighty 'sponsibility, honey!" "She'll have strength given her to bear it!" said Will, behind her. "It's time your biscuits were baking, Aunt Judy, and you're talking about 'sponsibility!" "I shall depend upon you, Uncle Will," said Ida. "The servants were easily controlled while mother's influence was at work. How they will submit to one of my age and experience remains to be seen." "Mr. Grant keeps them tolerably straight, ma'am. I can't say it's exactly as 'twas in her time, but they'll break in pretty easy, I reckon. An overseer, no matter how smart and good, ain't a marster or mistis. We get our victuals and clothes, and look just the same, but there's nobody to ride down from 'the house,' after planting, and hoeing, and harvesting's done, and say, well done, boys!' and at night, when we, whose quarters are in the yard, come up, it's so dark and lonesome, and still, and the doors and windows all shut, it makes us low-spirited--like 'twas no use to work--and Sunday--we feel it _then_!" "So you are rather glad I am back again?" "Glad! mistis! I couldn't be more pleased if you was my own child! We need you, ma'am; we need you!" "Still, as Aunt Judy says, it's a great responsibility." "You're one of the Lord's lambs, mistis. He will provide." He went out, and Ida caught up his last words, and through the dark nooks and reverberating galleries of the old house, sounded the refrain-- "His call we obey, like Abram of old, Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold, For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide, And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"