"My daughter! must I say, that next to my wife, you are nearer to me than any woman living? and I respect and honor, as much as I love you. Where is the mammet of fashion I would consult and trust as I do you? You are honestly striving with a purpose, and hoping for no plaudit but 'she hath done what she could.' How many mistake the limit of their 'could!' Go on as you have begun, and you will develope the highest type of female character. That I have not said this much before, is because I am a man of few words; and you appeared to shun open praise." Mr. Grant, seeing they were forgetting him, had, with native delicacy, stepped without the door, upon pretext of speaking to a passing laborer. Ida was moved even to tears, by her guardian's unqualified encomium, so feelingly uttered. The esteem of such a man was, of itself a reward for her conflicts with self and outward temptations. She had so much to be thankful for! she said over and over, that day. She was at home! at Sunnybank! the air was purer--the water clearer--the birds merrier, there than anywhere else; and there was abiding tranquillity in the thought that she might live and die under the roof-tree that sheltered her cradle; an enlargement of heart and kindliness as she beheld her dependents rejoicing in her restoration to them; looking to her for support and happiness. And that mother's grave was there! She sat there a long hour at even-tide. The willow leaflets were just putting out, and the swaying of the flexile boughs was slight and noiseless. There was a hush in the air--not a dead calm--but a solemn pause, as if Nature had folded her busy hands to return devout thanks for mercies past, and gather strength for future labor. Ida was no sickly dreamer now. She knew life, as it is--a day! only a day--divide and sub-divide as we may,--the morning hallowed by some with early prayer--squandered by more in trifling; the noon, waxing to its height over reeking brows and panting chests, and straining arms; the evening, relaxing the strung muscles, and curdling the bounding blood, and bringing to each his meed,--righteous recompense for his deeds, fair or foul; and the night--black-browed angel, saying to the vexed brain, "Thy work is ended!" spreading his hands over the swelling heart-wave, and it is still! bidding the harassed body--"Sleep on now and take your rest." She knew life, and that to the God-fearing toiler in His vineyard, there is no rest until night. He is not denied the inhalation of the odorous breeze, and a pause in the shade to wipe his heated brow; but he must not swerve from his furrow to seek it. Flowers, whose kindred blossom in Paradise, smile up from the unsightly clods, and these he may wear in his bosom, leaving unculled the poppies and almond-laurel which flaunt near by; content in knowing but this, what is _his_ work, and bending, training every power to the strenuous endeavor to do it.