Alone. Marion Harland
Lor! didn't you know that?"
"No," replied Ida, humbly; "I am so little conversant with State affairs. You will be glad to have him so near."
"I don't care much about it; I want to go home and stay with ma!" beginning to sob. Neither her unpolished manners, nor her accent, combining, as it did, the most vicious of Virginia provincialisms, with the gutturals of the African; nor her noisy grief, could make Ida forget that she was a home-sick child—weeping for her mother! She too had mourned, and "refused to be comforted, because hers was not." Miss Pratt's sorrow, however, was very garrulous.
"Now, at home," she continued, "I did jest as I pleased; I lay down most all day. Ma said reading was bad for my head; and so 'tis; it makes me as stupid as I don't know what; and ain't no use besides. I can play on the pianny; gentlemen don't care for nothing else when they go to see the ladies. You all don't have no beaux while you're at school, do you?"
Ida smiled at this unlooked for query. "We do not have much leisure for amusements," she rejoined.
"And can't you go to the theatre, and to shows and parties?" asked Miss Pratt, alarmed.
"There are no rules on the subject; but it is thought that a young lady is better fitted to go into society, when her mind and manners are formed by time and study."
"Mine are enough formed, I know," complacently glancing from her attire to Ida's plain merino, and black silk apron. "How awful ugly all the girls dress! Ain't none of 'em rich?"
"I believe so; but the school-girls here dress simply."
"I shan't! My pa's able to give me decent clothes, and I mean to have 'em. I don't like Richmond a single bit. Nobody don't take no more notice of me than if I wan't nobody—no better than other folks."
"You are not acquainted yet. There are some pleasant girls amongst us; and you will love Mr. Purcell."
"Is he strict, much? Does he make you get hard lessons?"
"He is very kind and considerate."
"I despise teachers and books. Thank patience! I am going to turn out after this session. Ma was married at fifteen, and I'm going on seventeen."
"I am quite seventeen, but I am not tired of books. When I leave school, I shall adopt a regular plan of study and reading."
"Good gracious! Why, don't you expect to get married? What are you going to learn so much for? I reckon you're going to teach school."
"No; I study because I like to do it."
"Pshaw! you talk like your teacher was in the room. I don't believe that."
"The school-bell!" interrupted Ida, happy to be released.
Miss Pratt hung back. "I don't want to go where all them girls are. Will Mr. What's-his-name be mad if I stay here?"
"He will probably send for you."
"Then I might's well go now. I don't care—I'm as good as any of 'em."
"What, and who is she?" inquired Carry, when school was out.
"A silly, neglected child," responded her friend. "Shamefully ignorant, when we consider her father's station. He is a member of the legislature."
"Ah! can it be the delegate from A——? I have heard of him. He is a clever politician, and an educated man. I am astonished!"
So were all who made the acquaintance of his daughter. Mr. Pratt had done his best to serve his country and increase his fortune. The rearing of his children was confided to a weak and foolishly fond mother. The only girl was alternately stuffed and dosed, until the modicum of intellectual strength nature might have granted her, was nearly destroyed; the arable soil exhausted by the rank weed growth. It was just after his election to the House of Representatives, that the father made simultaneously two astounding discoveries—that physically, his daughter was no longer a child, and that she was a dunce. He had paid a teacher to superintend her education, and supposed she had done her duty; whereas, the prudent governess, having little more sense than her pupil, and loving her ease fully as well, had enjoyed her sinecure of a situation with no compunctious visitings of conscience. She acted "according to Mrs. Pratt's instructions." It was a thunderbolt to the feminine trio when the Representative introduced a bill of amendment, paid the soi-disant instructress for the work she had not performed, informing her that her services were at an end; and ordered the mother to resign her spoiled child to him, "he would see what could be done towards redeeming the time." He carried his point in the teeth of a windy and watery tempest, and "Miss Celestia Pratt" was duly entered on the roll-book of Mr. Purcell's justly celebrated institution. She soon ceased to complain that she was not noticed. The second day of her attendance she fell in with Ellen Morris and her coterie. By the time the half hour's recess was over, they were enlightened as to her past life, and future aspirations, and supplied with the material of a year's fun-making; while she was reinstated in her self-consequence, and ready to strike hands with them in any scheme they chalked out.
"It is a shame," said Ida, who, with Carry kept aloof, silent spectators. "Cannot she see what they are doing?"
"It will be a severe, but perhaps a salutary lesson," replied Carry.
"But the poor creature will be the butt of the school."
"And of the community," said Carry. "I have reasoned with Ellen;—she is not evil disposed, but would compass sea and land for as rich a joke as this promises to be. My influence can effect nothing."
"What if I warn the girl?" said Ida. "Must she pay the penalty of her parent's fault?"
"My darling," returned Carry, affectionately, "I am learning prudence from you, and I verily believe I have imparted to you some of my inconsiderateness. What hold have you on this Miss Pratt's confidence? Ellen and her clique are as likely to be in the right as yourself. In her estimation they are more entitled to credence. They play upon the string of self—you will utter a distasteful truth. Let her and them alone, except so far as your individual self is concerned. Attract each one to you, and you may be the means of bringing them together."
Ellen Morris burst into the school-room one morning in a gale of excitement.
It was early, and none of the teachers were present, the girls were gathered in knots about the stove and desks.
"Oh girls!" she cried, "I hurried to get here before my angel Celestia. I have the best thing to tell you. You must know she and I were invited, with several others, to take tea at Uncle James' last evening. We had not been there long before aunt said that Mr. Dermott was expected. 'I have it,' thought I. I gave Celestia a nudge, 'Do you hear that?'
"'What?' said she.
"'The great traveller, Mr. Dermott, is to be here presently. Ain't you glad?'
"'Who is he? I never heard of him.'
"'Oh Celestia! and you a representative's daughter! and he invited expressly to meet you—it is well no one overheard you—and you have not composed your conversation either? What will you do? He is one of the famous authors you hear so much of. They will make a statue of him when he dies, like Washington in the capitol, you know.'
"'You don't say so!'
"'Yes, and he has seen the seven wonders of the world, and elephants, and rhinoceros, and polypi, and hippopotami, and Dawalageri, and anthropophagi.'
"'Good gracious!' said she, looking wild, 'You reckon he will speak to me? do tell me something to say!'
"'Could you repeat those names?'
"'That I couldn't, to save my life!'
"'Well—let me see—you must be very sober and wise; only saying 'yes' and 'no,' till he gets to talking of books. Then is the time to show off. Literary people never inquire what you remember in a book, if you say you have read it.'
"'Yes,' she struck in, with a grin. "So when he asks me