"You alarm me," answered Carry. "Your vague hints excite my curiosity, yet do not indicate the description of dangers I am to encounter. Let us understand each other--as the Methodist class-leaders have it, 'tell our experiences.'" "Mine may be briefly summed up," said Ida, sadly. 'The frigid and unfeeling thrive the best; And a warm heart in this cold world, is like A beacon light;--waiting its feeble light Upon the wintry deep, that feels it not-- Trembling with each pitiless blast that blows, 'Till its faint fire is spent.'" "You have known this?" asked Carry. "In all its bitterness!" "And the writer felt, or thought he felt the force of their meaning, when he penned the lines. Have you ever met with a warm heart besides your own?" "Yes, one--the home of excellence and affection." "Then, 'this cold world' has produced three, to whom its biting atmosphere was uncongenial--may there not be more? I look into my bosom, and discover there charity and good-will towards men; why should I deny the existence of like feelings in those who are partakers of the same nature, in all other respects?" "Fair logic; but let us examine facts. Take an example so frequently cited, as to appear hacknied, yet none the less true to nature. Your wealth, or situation, or influence enables you to benefit those who style themselves your friends. You are courted, beloved, popular. A change in these adventitious circumstances alters everything. With unabated desires for love or distinction, you are a clod of the earth, a cumberer of the ground. The stream of adulation flows in another direction; former acquaintances pass you with averted eyes, or chilling recognitions; you are sought by no new ones. Men do not go to a barren tree, or a dried fountain. You shake your head;--this is not a fancy sketch. Listen to a leaf from my history. Until two years ago I never received a harsh word, or an unloving look. My mother was the benefactress of the poor, for miles around, and I was her almoner. Blessings and smiles hailed me wherever I went. I had no conception of sorrows she could not alleviate; and I remember thinking--foolish child that I was! that her empire of hearts was worth the glory of an Alexander or Napoleon. She died! and where are the fruits of her loving kindness? If her memory lives in another breast than that of her only child, I do not know it!" There were tears in Carry's eyes, already, and the slight tremor of her speech was grateful music to the orphan's ear.