face paled
under the tan.

She turned away from him, her eyes full of tears which she dared not
let him see.

"I--I must have time," she said, almost desperately. "Will you give me
a day, two days?" she asked, quite humbly. "I want to do what you want,
but--I want to think: there is something I should have to tell you."

He flushed to the roots of his hair.

"If it's anything that's happened in the past, anyone else--of course,
loving you as I do, I have seen that there has been something on your
mind, some trouble besides your father's death--but if it is past, I
don't mind. I know I can teach you to forget it, whatever it is. Ida,
trust yourself to me."

She drew away from him.

"Give me two days," she said, with a catch in her breath.

He caught at the hope, small though it was.

"I will give you two days, twenty if you like," he said. "Only, while
you are thinking it over, remember I love you with all my heart and
soul, that my people will love you as a daughter, that--Oh, I won't say
any more: I can't trust myself! I'll go now."

When he had gone Ida got on Rupert and rode to the top of the hill.
There she pulled up and thought with all her heart and mind. She could
not doubt his love; she could not but feel that if she surrendered
herself to him he would, indeed, in time teach her to forget. She knew
that it was her duty to marry; his word about the estates had not been
spoken in vain. Yes; if she became Lord Edwin's wife, she would in time
forget. But, alas! she did not want to forget.

Her love for Stafford was still as strong as ever, and with its
bitterness was mingled a sweetness which was sweeter than life itself.
And yet how great a sin it was, how shameful a one, that she should
love a man who was pledged to another woman, who was going to marry
her!

She came in late for dinner, and could scarcely eat. Her reason said
"yes," her heart said "no:" and she knew that she ought to listen to
her reason and turn a deaf ear to the still voice in her heart. She
paced up and down the drawing-room, pale and wan with the fight that
was going on within her. Then suddenly she resolved that she would
accept him. She would not keep him in suspense: it would not be
fair--it would be a cruel requital of his love and generosity. She went
to the writing-table, and hurriedly, as if she were afraid of
hesitating, she drew a sheet of paper towards her and wrote:

"Dear Lord Edwin--" She had got thus far when Don