Carry's disinterested vindication electrified her. To risk the forfeiture of the favor of the many, for one who had never conferred an obligation--whose good will could profit her nothing! in her experience, the act lacked a parallel. "Can it be," she thought, with stirring pulses, "can it be that I may yet find a friend?" then, as Carry's "I am resolved she shall love me," reached her, she bowed in thankfulness. "I will trust! will stake my last hope of ever meeting a kindred spirit upon this throw--will let her love me if she will, so help me God!" It was no light vow. Carry's intrusion was unobserved; she was only sensible of the incalescence of her frozen heart. The afternoon was cloudy, and her maid was surprised to see her mistress preparing for her promenade. "Indeed, Miss Ida, you'll get caught in the shower; 'twont be no little sprinkle, neither. When its starts to rain this time o' year, it never holds up." "Oh, well!" returned Ida, familiarly, "if we have another deluge, I may as well be out of doors as in. But give me my cloak, Rachel, I must have a short run before it sets in." Josephine crossed the hall as she was going out. She stared, but made no remark upon her unseasonable excursion. It was less wonderful than the smile and nod she received. "It is pleasant," said Ida to herself, "yet they talked of rain!" But the storm was not to be delayed by inward sunshine. The smoky fog grew denser; through the ominous calm which pervaded the city, the roaring of the distant "Falls" was distinctly audible; cows stood, solemnly herded together, the vapor from their nostrils scarcely thicker than the surrounding atmosphere; and an occasional rain-drop trickling down their roughened hides. Then the pavement was spotted with the precursors of the prognosticated deluge, and a dash of spray into Ida's face restored her to the perception of her actual position: a mile from home, night and a tempest approaching. Ere a dozen steps were retraced, she was met by the shower,--November rain, cutting and numbing as hail. Her veil, flimsy defence for her face, was dripping in a moment, and the water streamed in miniature cascades from her bonnet and shoulders. Bewildered and dizzy, she sprang, without a thought, except the instinct of self-preservation, into the shelter of a friendly porch. She laughed, despite her uneasiness at her situation. "Wet, not quite to the skin, but more damp than is comfortable; sans umbrella, over-shoes, carriage or servant, and where, I cannot precisely determine."