She gave him time, and then asked a few questions concerning Alice’s home and friends.  He replied, that she was in “a wretched fix.”  Her aunt was a vixen, her home a rigorous prison.  He sighed deeply, and seemed unhappy, until the subject was changed,—­a relief which Kate had too much tact to defer long.

This sunny-hearted fellow made the rest of the journey very short to me.  I think such a spirit is Heaven’s very best boon to man.  It is a delightful possession for one’s self, and a godsend to one’s friends.

When we reached the Astor House, I was put to bed, like a baby, in the middle of the afternoon, thoroughly exhausted by the unusual excitement.  The crickets and grasshoppers in the fields at home were sufficiently noisy to make me pass wakeful nights; but now I dropped asleep amid the roar of Broadway, which my open windows freely admitted.

Before I had finished my first nap, I was awakened by whispering voices, and saw Ben standing by me, pale, and anxiously searching Kate’s face for information.  Her eyes were upon her watch, her fingers on my wrist.

“Pulse good, Ben.  We need not be alarmed.  It is wholesome repose,—­much better than nervous restlessness.  He can bear the journey, if he gets such sleep as this.”

“Humph!” I thought, shutting my eyes crossly.  “Why don’t she let a fellow be in peace, then?  It is very hard that I can’t get a doze without being meddled with!”

“I was just distraught, Miss Kathleen,” said Ben; “for it’s nigh about twenty hour sin’ he dropped asleep, and I was frighted ontil conshultin’ ye aboot waukin’ him.”

I burst into a laugh, and they both joined me in it, from surprise.  It is not often I call upon them for that kind of sympathy.  It is generally in sighs and groans that I ask them—­most unwillingly, I am sure—­to participate.

Kate wrote, some time ago, to our dear little Alice, begging her to join us in the Green Mountains, for it makes us both unhappy to think of that pretty child under iron rule; but her aunt refused to let her come to us.

VI.

C——­ Springs.  July.

I am here established, drinking the waters and breathing the mountain air, but not gaining any marvellous benefit from either of them.  When I repine in Ben’s hearing, he sighs deeply, and advises me “to heed the auld-warld proverb, and ‘tak’ things by their smooth handle, sin’ there’s nae use in grippin’ at thorns.”  Kate, too, reproves me for hindering my recovery by fretting at its tardiness.  She tries to comfort me, by saying that I ought to be thankful, that, instead of being obliged to waste my youth in “horrid business,” I can lie here observing and enjoying the beautiful world.  Thereupon I overwhelm her with quotations:—­“The horse must be road-worn and world-worn, that he may thoroughly enjoy his drowsy repose in the sun, where he winks in sleepy satisfaction";—­and Carlyle: