as if speaking to Louisa —
"What have you been doing these two months? What is it that clouds your face, my little sister?"
"Ah, sir! I am so weary of that school. You don't know what a relief it is to come here."
"It is rather natural that you should feel home-sick. It is a fierce ordeal for a child like you to be thrust so far from home."
"I am not home-sick now, I believe. I have in some degree become accustomed to the separation from my father; but I am growing so different from what I used to be; so different from what I expected. It grieves me to know that I am changing for the worse; but, somehow, I can't help it. I make good resolutions in the morning before I leave my room, and by noon I manage to break all of them. The girls try me and I lose my patience. When I am at home nothing of this kind ever troubles me."
"Miss Irene, yours is not a clinging, dependent disposition; if I have rightly understood your character, you have never been accustomed to lean upon others. After relying on yourself so long, why yield to mistrust now? With years should grow the power, the determination, to do the work you find laid out for you."
"It is precisely because I know how very poorly I have managed myself thus far that I have no confidence in my own powers for future emergencies. Either I have lived alone too long, or else not long enough; I rather think the last. If they had only suffered me to act as I wished, I should have been so much better at home. Oh, sir, I am not the girl I was eight months ago. I knew how it would be when they sent me here."
"Some portentous cloud seems lowering over your future. What is it? You ought to be a gleeful girl, full of happy hopes."
She sank farther back in her chair to escape his searching gaze and drooped her face lower.
"Yes, yes; I know I ought, but people can't always shut their eyes."
"Shut their eyes to what?"
"Various coming troubles, Mr. Young."
His lip curled slightly, and, replacing the book on the table, he said, as if speaking rather to himself than to her —
"The heart knoweth his own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy."
"You are not a stranger, sir."
"I see you are disposed to consider me such. I thought I was your brother. But no matter; after a time all will be well."
She looked puzzled; and, as the tea-bell summoned them, he merely added —
"I do not wonder. You are a shy child; but you will soon learn to understand me; you will come to me with all your sorrows."
During the remainder of this visit she saw him no more. Louisa recovered rapidly, and when she asked for her brother on Sabbath evening, Mrs. Young said he was to preach twice that day. Monday morning arrived, and Irene returned to school with a heavy heart fearing that she had wounded him; but a few days after, Louisa brought her a book and brief note of kind words. One Saturday morning she sat quite alone in her small room; the week had been specially painful, and, wearied in soul, the girl laid her head down on her folded arms, and thought of her home in the far South. A loud rap startled her from this painful reverie, and ere she could utter the stereotyped "come in," Louisa sprang to her side.
"I have come for you, Irene; have obtained permission from Dr. – for you to accompany us to the Academy of Design. Put on your bonnet; Harvey is waiting in the reception room. We shall have a charming day."
"Ah, Louisa! you are all very kind to recollect me so constantly. It will give me great pleasure to go."
When they joined the minister, Irene fancied he received her coldly, and as they walked on he took no part in the conversation. The annual exhibition had just opened; the rooms were thronged with visitors, and the hushed tones swelled to a monotonous hum. Some stood in groups, expatiating eagerly on certain pictures; others occupied the seats and leisurely scanned now the paintings, now the crowd. Furnished with a catalogue, the girls moved slowly on, while Mr. Young pointed out the prominent beauties or defects of the works exhibited. They made the circuit of the room, and began a second tour, when their attention was attracted by a girl who stood in one corner, with her hands clasped behind her. She was gazing very intently on an Ecce-Homo, and, though her face was turned toward the wall, the posture bespoke most unusual interest. Irene looked at her an instant, and held her breath; she had seen only one other head which resembled that – she knew the purplish waving hair, and gliding up to her she exclaimed —
"Electra! Electra Grey!"
The orphan turned, and they were locked in a tight embrace.
"Oh, Irie! I am so glad to see you. I have been here so long, and looked for you so often, that I had almost despaired. Whenever I walk down Broadway, whenever I go out anywhere, I look at every face, peep into every bonnet, hoping to find you. Oh! I am so glad. Do come and see me soon – soon. I must go now – I promised."
"Where do you live? I will go home with you now."
"I am not going home immediately. Mr. Clifton's house is No. 85, West – Street. Come this afternoon."
With a long, warm pressure of hands they parted, and Irene stood looking after the graceful figure till it glided out of sight.
"In the name of wonder, who is that? You two have been the 'observed of all observers,'" ejaculated the impulsive Louisa.
"That is my old schoolmate and friend of whom I once spoke to you. I had no idea that she was in New York. She is a poor orphan."
"Are you ready to return home? This episode has evidently driven pictures out of your head for to-day," said Mr. Young, who had endeavoured to screen her from observation.
"Yes, quite ready to go, though I have enjoyed the morning very much indeed, thanks to your kindness."
Soon after they reached home, Louisa was called into the parlour to see a young friend, and as Mrs. Young was absent, Irene found it rather lonely upstairs. She thought of a new volume of travels which she had noticed on the hall-table as they entered, and started down to get it. About half-way of the flight of steps she caught her foot in the carpeting, where one of the rods chanced to be loose, and despite her efforts to grasp the railing fell to the floor of the hall, crushing one arm under her. The library-door was thrown open instantly, and the minister came out. She lay motionless, and he bent over her.
"Irene! where are you hurt? Speak to me."
He raised her in his arms and placed her on the sofa in the sitting-room. The motion produced great pain, and she groaned and shut her eyes. A crystal vase containing some exquisite perfume stood on his mother's work-table, and, pouring a portion of its contents in his palm, he bathed her forehead. Acute suffering distorted her features, and his face grew pallid as her own while he watched her. Taking her hand, he repeated —
"Irene, my darling! tell me how you are hurt?"
She looked at him, and said with some difficulty —
"My ankle pains me very much, and I believe my arm is broken. I can't move it."
"Thank God you are not killed."
He kissed her, then turned away and despatched a servant for a physician. He summoned Louisa, and inquired fruitlessly for his mother; no one knew whither she had gone; it would not do to wait for her. He stood by the sofa and prepared the necessary bandages, while his sister could only cry over
