away and leaving her within less than three weeks after her
father's death. She lost sight of her own happiness in having the
child with her, in the bitter reflection over the disloyalty to her
father.

"She never cared at all for father," she muttered to herself--"never
at all; and now she does not really care because he is gone. She is
perfectly delighted to be free, and have money enough to go to
Europe, although she tries to hide it."

Maria felt as if she had caught sight of a stone of shame in the
place where a wife's and mother's heart should have been. She felt
sick with disgust, as if she had seen some monster. It never occurred
to her that she was possibly unjust to Ida, who was, after all, as
she was made, a being on a very simple and primitive plan, with an
acute perception of her own welfare and the means whereby to achieve
it. Ida was in reality as innocently self-seeking as a butterfly or a
honey-bee. She had never really seen anybody in the world except
herself. She had been born humanity blind, and it was possibly no
more her fault than if she had been born with a hump.

The next day Ida went to New York with Mrs. Voorhees to complete some
preparations for her journey, and to meet Mrs. Voorhees's sister, who
was expected to arrive from the South, where she had been spending
the winter. That evening the Voorheeses came over and discussed their
purchases, and Miss Wyatt, the sister, came with them. She was
typically like Mrs. Voorhees, only younger, and with her figure in
better restraint. She had so far successfully fought down an
hereditary tendency to avoirdupois. She had brilliant yellow hair and
a brilliant complexion, like her sister, and she was as well, even
better, dressed. Ida had purchased that day a steamer-rug, a close
little hat, and a long coat for the voyage, and the women talked over
the purchases and their plans for travel with undisguised glee. Once,
when Ida met Maria's sarcastic eyes, she colored a little and
complained of a headache, which she had been suffering with all day.

"Yes, there is no doubt that you are simply a nervous wreck, and you
would break down entirely without the sea-voyage and the change of
scene," said Mrs. Voorhees, in her smooth, emotionless voice and with
a covert glance at Maria. Ida had confided to her the attitude which
she knew Maria took with reference to her going away.

"All I regret--all that mars my perfect delight in the prospect of
the trip--