CHAPTER XXXIII. TURNING SHADOWS INTO SUNBEAMS. Where was Catharine Lacy all this time? Away in a New-England village, where a merciful institution had been established for the care and amelioration of insanity. Mrs. Barr had become matron of the house, and she took Catharine with her as an assistant, having learned to know and love the girl as good people are sure to love the excellence they have benefited. The building was of recent erection; the grounds were newly laid out, and were, of course, somewhat bare of ornament. But a few grand old forest-trees had been left scattered over them in clumps and singly, while an undergrowth of ferns, wild shrubbery and thick rich grass compensated for all lack of scientific culture. Beyond all that, the situation was a commanding one. The prospect from almost every window was beautiful. Hillsides covered with thrifty crops—maple groves that became gorgeous in the autumn—farm-houses that gave an idea of elegance as well as comfort, formed lovely rural pictures whereon the inmates of the institution looked. Indeed, within or without, there was nothing to excite the brain or give an unpleasant emotion. Authority there was, certainly, firm and judicious, but so concealed in all its rugged points, that even the sharp suspicion of insanity failed to jar against it. Indeed, the ruling spirit of this place was Mrs. Barr, whose charity was ever prevailing, and whose firm goodness was rendered efficient by proportionate strength. To her the inmates of this building were objects of unlimited interest. She gave up all the energies of her life for their benefit, and learned to find in each diseased mind some sane spot capable of understanding the sympathy she gave. What Mrs. Barr was to her charge, Catharine became in another way. Notwithstanding her hard life, she was not uneducated: no girl of good natural ability ever need be ignorant in this land. So long as she can read and write, the keys of all knowledge are in her own keeping; nature supplies objects of beauty upon which her imagination can feast, and books are so plentiful, that she can hardly escape the information they contain. In her childhood, Catharine had received generous advantages and secured the idea of many accomplishments which application was sure to improve; these she brought into action at once. A love of music placed her in quick sympathy with many of the patients. Her talent for painting, crude as it was, supplied amusement for others. She had a fine voice, and was that rare being, a natural reader. The very tones of her voice filled the listening ear with harmonies. With this exception, Catharine’s attainments were few; but natural talent—not to say genius—gave grace and piquancy to them all. Besides, she was so pretty, so exquisitely truthful, that even insanity felt the charm of her whole character.