d encouragement.

"Your cousin and I want to talk to you about the future, Ida," he said.
"You will have to be told some time or other exactly how your father's
affairs stood, and I have come to the conclusion that it is better you
should know at once than that you should be permitted to remain in
ignorance of the gravity of the situation. I have gone over your
father's papers and looked into his affairs very carefully and closely,
and I am sorry to say that they are in a very unsatisfactory condition.
As I told you the other day, the estate has been encumbered and very
seriously embarrassed for some time past, and the encumbrance has been
increased of late, notwithstanding the admirable way in which you have
managed the estate and the household affairs."

Ida raised her eyes to his and tried to regard him calmly and bravely,
but her lips quivered and she checked a sigh.

Mr. Wordley coughed and frowned, as a man does when he is engaged in a
disagreeable and painful task.

"The principal mortgagee has given me notice of foreclosure, and the
amount of the debt is so large that I am afraid--it would be cruel and
useless to conceal the truth from you--I _know_ that the property sold
would not be sufficient to meet it. Of ready money there appears to be
none--"

Mr. John Heron groaned and raised his melancholy eyes to the ceiling
with an expression of reprobation. Ida appeared unconscious of his
presence and kept her sad eyes steadily fixed on the lawyer's kind and
mournful face.

--"In a word, my dear child, your poor father appears to have left
absolutely no effects behind him."

Ida drew a long breath and was silent for a moment, as she tried to
realise the significance of his words.

"Do you mean that I am quite penniless?" she said, in a low voice.

Mr. Wordley blew his nose and coughed two or three times, as if he
found it difficult to reply; at last he said, in a voice almost as low
as hers:

"Put shortly, I am afraid, my dear, that is what I must tell you. I had
no idea that the position was so grave. I thought that there would be
something left; sufficient, at any rate, to render you independent;
but, as I told you, I have been kept in ignorance of your father's
affairs for some years past, and I did not know how things were going.
I am surprised as well as grieved, deeply grieved; and I must confess
that I can only account for the deplorable confusion and loss by the
theory that I suggested to you the