ught.

CHAPTER XXIX.

As Isabel had intimated, life at Laburnum Villa was not altogether
hilarious. The environs of London are undeniably pretty, prettier than
those of any other capital in Europe, but there is no shirking the fact
that the Northern suburbs of our great metropolis are somewhat grim and
soul-depressing. Laburnum Villa was in a long street, which resembled
the other streets as one tree resembles another; and you had to
traverse a great many of these streets before you got into the open
country, that is, away from the red-bricked and stucco villas, and
still smaller and uglier houses, which had been run up by the
enterprising jerry-builder.

But Ida would have been glad enough to have gone through this purgatory
to the paradise of country lanes which lay beyond, if she could only
have gone alone; but Mrs. Heron and Isabel never left her alone; they
seemed to consider it their duty to "keep her company," and they could
not understand her desire for the open air, much less her craving for
solitude. Until Ida's arrival, Isabel had never taken a walk for a
walk's sake, and for the life of her she could not comprehend Ida's
love of "trapesing" about the dusty lanes, and over the commons where
there was always a wind, Isabel declared, to blow her hair about. If
she went out, she liked to go up to London, and saunter about the hot
streets, gazing in at the shop windows, or staring enviously at the
"carriage people" as they drove by.

Ida didn't care for London, took very little interest in the shops, and
none whatever in the carriage folks. She was always pining for the
fresh air, the breezy common, the green trees; and on the occasions
when she could persuade Isabel to a country ramble, she walked with
dreamy eyes that saw not the cut-and-dry rusticity of Woodgreen and
Whetstone, but the wild dales and the broad extant of the Cumberland
hills.

She was, indeed, living in the past, and it was the present that seemed
a dream to her. Of course she missed the great house, where she had
ruled as mistress, her horses and her cows and dogs; but what she
missed more than all else was her freedom of motion.

It was the routine, the dull, common routine, of Laburnum Villa which
irked so badly. Neither Mrs. Heron nor Isabel had any resources in
themselves; they had few friends, and they were of the most
commonplace, not to say vulgar type; and a "Tea" at Laburnum Villa
tried Ida almost beyond endurance; for