e a sneer she said, in a metallic tone:

"I beg your pardon, but are you aware that you are trespassing?"

A saint would have turned on such provocation; and Ida, being no saint,
felt that her face was as crimson as the other girl's, and grew as hot
of heart as of face. She set her lips tightly and tried to remain
silent: surely it would be better, in every way better, to ride on
without a word. But it was more than she could do: and she drew herself
up and her eyes flashed back the challenge, as she said in a low but
distinct voice:

"Pardon me, but you are mistaken. The land on which I am riding belongs
to me." Maude grew pale again, and her lips set closely until the line
of red almost disappeared.

"Is this not, then, part of the Villa estate?" she asked.

"No; it is part of the Herondale estate," replied Ida, rather more
gently: for was it not horrible that she should be engaged in
altercation with Stafford's future wife?

"Then I presume I have the honour of speaking to Miss Heron," said
Maude, with an indefinable air, combining contempt and defiance, which
brought the colour to Ida's face again.

"My name is Ida Heron; yes," she said.

"Then, if you are making no mistake, it is I who am trespassing," said
Maude, "and it is I who must apologise. Pray consider that I do so most
fully, Miss Heron."

"No apology is necessary," said Ida, still more gently. "You are quite
welcome to ride over this or any part of Herondale."

Maude gave a little scornful laugh.

"Thanks, it's very good of you!" she said, haughtily, and with that
covert offensiveness of which, alas! a woman alone is capable. "I do
not think I shall have any desire to avail myself of your kind
permission; the public roads and the land belonging to my father's
house will, I think, prove quite sufficient for me. I am the daughter
of Mr. Falconer, of the Villa at Brae Wood."

Ida inclined her head slightly by way of acknowledgment and adieu, and
without another word rode on towards the gate at the bottom of the
field which opened on to the road. Adonis who had been delighted to
meet his old friend, promptly followed; and, though Maude Falconer
tried her hardest to check him and turn him, he, inwardly laughing at
her efforts, trotted cheerfully beside Rupert, and continued their
conversation. Maude was half mad with mortification, and, quite unable
to leave Ida's hated side, she raised her whip and struck Adonis across
the face. The horse, who