life we lead in this house would make a cat sick.
It's like being on a tread-mill; nothing happens; it's just one dreary
round, with mother always whining and father always preaching. You
heard what he said to the servants to-night? I wonder they stand it. I
should go out of my mind myself if I didn't get a little amusement
going up to the shops and sneaking into a _matinee_ on the sly. I'm
sure I don't know how you'll stand it, after the life you've led. What
do you use for your hair? It's so soft and silky. I wish I had black
hair like yours. Do you put anything on your hands? They're rather
brown; but that's because you've lived in the open air so much, I
suppose. I'll lend you some stuff I use, if you like."

Ida declined the brandy and the infallible preparation for whitening
the hands; and not at all discouraged, Isabel went on:

"Were there any young men at Herondale? You didn't say anything about
them down-stairs, but I thought perhaps you would like to tell me when
we were alone. I suppose there was someone you were sorry to part
from?" she added, with an inviting smile.

Ida repressed a shudder and plied her brush vigorously, so that her
hair hid the scarlet which suffused her face.

"I knew so few of the people," she said. "As I told you down-stairs, my
father and I led the most secluded of lives, and saw scarcely anyone."

Isabel eyed Ida sharply and suspiciously.

"Oh, well, of course, if you don't like to tell me," she said, with a
little toss of her head; "but perhaps it's too soon; when we know each
other better you'll be more open. I'm sure I shall be glad of someone
to tell things to."

She sighed, and looked down with a sentimental air; but Ida did not
rise to the occasion; and with a sigh of disappointment, and a last
look round, so that nothing should escape her, Isabel took her
departure, and Ida was left in peace.

Tired as she was, it was some time before she could get to sleep. The
change in her life had come so suddenly that she felt confused and
bewildered. It had not needed Joseph Heron's mention of Sir Stephen
Orme's name to bring Stafford to her mind; for he was always present
there; and she lay, with wide-open eyes and aching heart, repeating to
herself the letter he had sent her, and wondering why he who, she had
thought, loved her so passionately, had left her. Compared with this
sorrow, and that of her father's death, the smaller miseries of her
present condition counted as na