n bed, prostrated by your heartless
conduct; you have trifled with that most delicate and sacred of things,
a human heart. Go to your chamber, Ida, and there I trust you will seek
repentance on your knees."

There was silence for a moment, then Ida said, very quietly:

"Have you anything more to say to me?"

"Not to-night," said John, sternly. "I am wearied with well-doing. I
have been preaching, calling sinners, like yourself, to a better life.
To-morrow I will speak with you again, I will endeavour to snatch a
brand from the burning."

"Good-night," said Ida. She paused with her hand on the door. "Cousin
John, you came to me when I was in great trouble; you offered me a home
when I was homeless; I think you have been as kind as you knew how to
be, and I want to thank you. I daresay it is my fault that I have not
got on better with you all. I am not so bad as you think--but we will
say no more about that. I do not want you to consider me ungrateful;
for indeed, I am grateful for the shelter you have given me, and I
shall always remember that you came to my aid when I was in sore need.
Will you please ask my cousin and Isabel to forgive me--for having
unwittingly caused them so much trouble? Good-night."

"Good-night," said John Heron, grimly. "I should be comforted if I
could think that you were speaking from your heart; but I fear that you
are not--I fear that you are not! Oh, may that heart be melted! may you
be brought to see the peril of your evil ways!" Followed by this devout
prayer, Ida went up to her room. As she paced up and down she tried to
tell herself that the whole thing was too ridiculous, was too much like
a farce to make her wretched; but she felt unutterably miserable, and
she knew that she could no longer endure Laburnum Villa and the petty
tyranny and vindictiveness of these relations.

Poverty, hardship, she could have borne patiently and without
complaining; but there are some things more intolerable to a
high-spirited girl, such as Ida, than poverty or physical
hardship--there are some things which hurt more than actual blows. She
felt stifling, choking; she knew that, happen what might, she could not
remain under her cousin's roof, eat the bread of his charity, for
another day. She shuddered as she pictured herself meeting them at the
breakfast-table, facing Mrs. Heron's spiteful face, Isabel's
tear-swollen eyes, and her cousin John's sanctimonious sermon.

She would have to go.

She t