## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ida Nicolari

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Title: Ida Nicolari

Author: Eglanton Thorne

Release date: September 23, 2025 [eBook #76917]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1886

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDA NICOLARI ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

# IDA NICOLARI

BY

EGLANTON THORNE

AUTHOR OF "THE OLD WORCESTER JUG," "IT'S ALL REAL TRUE,"
"IN LONDON FIELDS," "THE TWO CROWNS," ETC.

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

56 PATERNOSTER ROW, 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
AND 164 PICCADILLY

PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. PSYCHE

II. HER MOTHER'S FRIEND

III. THE SCULPTOR'S PUPIL

IV. GERALDINE SEABROOK

V. A SORE DREAD

VI. VISITORS TO THE STUDIO

VII. IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF

VIII. A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING

IX. TREGONING'S "HOBBY"

X. ANXIETY

XI. BLIND!

XII. PATIENT ENDURANCE

XIII. AT ST. ANGELA'S

XIV. AN ALARMING SUGGESTION

XV. BETROTHED

XVI. THE GOOD SHEPHERD

XVII. AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON'S

XVIII. WOUNDED

XIX. THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE

XX. THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR

XXI. ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY

XXII. FATHERLESS

XXIII. IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND

XXIV. A MEETING AND A PARTING

XXV. A CANCELLED DEBT

IDA NICOLARI.

### CHAPTER I.

PSYCHE.

"THERE, child, you are free. The light is going too rapidly for me to attempt more this afternoon. How is it that the days seem to get shorter, although we are long past the shortest?"

The speaker was Antonio Nicolari, a sculptor who had won a high place in the world of art. That his fame had not been won without long-continued pains, his grizzled locks and worn, furrowed face revealed. His best years had been spent in toil apparently fruitless, uncheered by success or animated by much hope, stimulated only by the intense devotion to his art which distinguishes the master-spirit. He was standing now in his studio, at the back of his roomy old house in Chelsea, gazing with earnest, loving gaze on the clay image he was loth to leave, yet dared not risk spoiling. But he was not so rapt in contemplation of his work as to be heedless of a soft sigh breathed forth at his elbow. His look and voice grew tender as he turned to his daughter with the inquiry:

"Have I tired you, Ida?"

"No, father, I am not tired," the girl replied in a clear, sweet voice, as she moved from the spot where she had been standing posed as her father's model for the statue of Psyche he had in hand.

Ida Nicolari was not unworthy to personify the beautiful maiden whom Cupid loved. Her slender, slightly moulded form was the perfection of grace and beauty, whilst her face was faultlessly classical in its symmetry. She had the oval contour, the delicate brows, the rippling waves of hair upon a low, broad forehead, the straight, chiselled nose, the beautiful mouth, with short, curved upper lip, which we are wont to associate chiefly with statuary, so rarely are they seen in life. There was, however, no statuesque coldness nor lack of character visible in the girl's face. Her liquid dark eyes looked from beneath the delicately arched brows with the open, vivid gaze of childhood. She was pale, but it was with a warm, healthy paleness, and her lips were like coral, and when parted showed such perfect teeth as it would be no hyperbole to liken to pearls. She wore a specially designed Grecian dress. The loose vest was gathered in graceful folds about her neck, not hiding the shapely throat, and leaving bare her beautiful arms. Looking on her as she moved with light, quick step across the studio floor, one might have thought of Pygmalion, and fancied that one of the sculptor's statues had been endowed with life.

Not that there was one of all the statues that crowded the artist's studio which could compare in beauty with this living loveliness. Behind the spot where the sculptor had been working rose a crowd of pale forms, most of them the duplicates of statues long since executed for the benefit of the public. In the background were colossal figures, such as might have walked the earth in the days when there were giants. In front of these were busts representing strange diversities of character and circumstance, but placed together with a disregard for social distinctions which would hardly have been tolerated by some of the originals. The bust of a royal duke shouldered the effigy of a city alderman's wife, whose commonplace features the sculptor had rendered with strict accuracy; the stately repose of a bishop's countenance was set off by the rough, homely contour of a popular Nonconformist divine; the form of a renowned soldier looked down on that of a peace-loving statesman; and the head of a Quaker philanthropist paired with that of a famous comedian.

But the studio held more beautiful work. There were ideal statues, personifying the ideas both of remote and of modern times. Here was a laughing, vine-wreathed Bacchus, and there Diana, with her bow and arrows. There were sportive nymphs and sweet childish forms and fair maidens to represent the Seasons or the Graces. The studio had no furniture save such as pertained to the work there pursued. The shelves running round the walls held models of all descriptions, from the small clay "sketch" which was the germ of a greater work to the delicately finished miniature statue. Numerous casts—arms and hands and feet, horses' heads and hoofs, birds and flowers and fruit—lay to hand for use as required. At first sight the confusion of forms was bewildering, yet it was a confusion not without beauty.

Ida Nicolari caught up a shawl and wrapped it about her, as she moved away from the spot where she had been standing motionless for what seemed to her a long time. The air of the studio was chill, and the stove only cast a little warmth about the limited space in which the sculptor worked.

"I believe you are lazy, father," the girl exclaimed, as she stepped slowly backwards, that she might the better survey his half-formed model; "it is still quite light. You worked later than this yesterday, though the sky was not so clear as it is to-day."

"And came near spoiling my work," he said; "the atmosphere is always more or less charged with fog after three o'clock in this gloomy climate."

"There is no fog to-day," said his daughter. "It was lovely on the Embankment this morning. I could see a long way down the river."

"Then the mist is in my eyes," he said slowly; and the sadness of his tone did not escape his daughter's ears.

A look of trouble clouded her face for a moment as she glanced at him. He had taken off his spectacles, and was carefully wiping the glasses with his silk handkerchief. Ida divined the meaning of his grave, sad look.

"It is because you have tired your eyes, father," she said; "you forget that the oculist told you to avoid fatigue. You must rest them now. Shall we go for a walk? You can wear your smoke-coloured glasses, you know; or would you rather sit quietly in your chair and let me read to you?"

"I would rather rest at home," he said, and his tone was that of one cast down in spirit. "It seems to me, Ida, that there will be nothing but rest for me soon."

"What do you mean?" she asked, giving him a frightened glance. Then with a swift change of tone she said lightly: "Now don't worry about your eyes, father, they will get right in time. You know that the oculist said that you must have patience; he could not promise you a cure all at once."

"I think I have had patience," said the old man wearily; "you forget that it is nearly three months since I saw the oculist, and my sight has not improved in the least. Indeed, it grows worse—I am sure it grows worse."

"No, no, father!" cried the girl, quickly. "The light is not so good as it was, and I daresay it is later than I think."

So saying she ran into the room beyond the studio. Here there was more of the dust and litter of a workshop, though here, too, were many pieces of fine sculpture. At the end of the room stood a workman, engaged in reducing a block of marble to the proportions of the clay model placed conveniently at hand. He was an elderly man, with a grave, earnest face, the strong features of which were well set off by his close-fitting workman's cap. He was so intent upon his task that he was not aware of the young lady's entrance till she addressed him.

"Can you tell me the time, Fritz?" she said.

The man merely glanced up at the skylight ere he replied: "It can hardly be more than three and a quarter, Miss Ida."

"Do you call the light bad this afternoon?" she asked.

"Bad, Miss Ida?" he repeated. "Nay, the sun is kind to us to-day. We do not often have so good a light at this hour."

The girl sighed. She stood still for a few minutes, her eyes resting lovingly on the clay model before her. She thought it one of the most beautiful forms that had ever come from her father's hands. It represented Apollo as a shepherd lad. There was great beauty in the form and pose of the boyish figure, as he stood half leaning on his shepherd's crook, his lute beneath one arm, whilst at his side nestled a lamb.

"Fritz," said Ida, "my father has done nothing more beautiful than this."

"But the master's next work will surpass it," replied Fritz, looking at the young lady with reverential admiration. "The Pysche will be even more beautiful than the Apollo with which it is to pair."

Ida only smiled and shook her head. She knew that good, faithful old Fritz meant to compliment her, and she valued the affection which she believed prompted his words. But she cared little to be told that she was beautiful. Vanity was no component of her character, and she was strangely indifferent to the fact of her beauty, being too simple and guileless to know how great a value others would set on it.

"Do you not think that my father's work looks better in the clay than in the finished marble?" she asked, as she continued to study the Apollo.

"How can that be, Miss Ida?" returned the man. "Surely the spotless stone must be more beautiful than the brown clay!"

"Ah! You do not understand," she said. "The clay is warm from his hand; he seems to have put his own soul into it. How lifelike, how noble is that face! I could fancy that my father's face wore such an expression when he was young."

She was turning away when she caught sight of an unfinished bust over which a cloth had been lightly flung. With a look of interest she lifted the cloth to peep at the work beneath.

"Ah!" she said with a smile, "Wilfred has not done much to this since last I saw it."

"Master Wilfred will never injure himself with overwork," said Fritz, laconically.

"No, indeed," replied Ida, shaking her head. "I wish he were more industrious. It vexes my father to see him so idle."

She passed back into the inner room. At that moment a servant entered the studio by the door communicating with the house, and handed the sculptor the card of a visitor who had arrived. With a look of annoyance Antonio took up the card, but his face changed as he read the name it bore. Ida was watching him, and she was struck by the sudden change. Why did he look so startled and agitated?

"Who is it, father?" she asked.

"Mrs. Tregoning," he said absently; "Mrs. Tregoning."

"Who is she?" asked Ida. "I have never heard that name."

"An old friend," he said slowly, "an old friend of your mother, Ida. I have not seen her since you were born."

Then Ida understood why he was so moved by this visitor's unexpected arrival.

"Stay, father," she said, as he was about to leave the studio; "you must change your coat before you see this lady; and I will send some tea into the dining-room."

"Do so, my dear," he said, "but do not come yourself unless I send for you. We shall have many things to talk about that you would not understand."

"Very well, father," said Ida, dutifully. Yet his words caused her disappointment, for she felt a strong desire to see one who had known intimately the mother whose life had been given as the price of her own.

### CHAPTER II.

HER MOTHER'S FRIEND.

IN the dining-room awaiting the sculptor's entrance stood a tall, graceful woman some fifty years of ago. Her very pale complexion looked the whiter in contrast to her black hair and dark eyes. She had regular features. Her small, thin-lipped month was firmly compressed, and she held herself with much natural dignity, whilst yet her looks betrayed some feminine timidity. She was dressed in mourning—not the deep sable that denotes a recent bereavement, but in simple unobtrusive black, the style of which, however, would to a woman's eye have suggested widowhood.

She glanced carefully about the room, as though desirous of reading all it might reveal of the life that was lived in it. She saw a square, sombre apartment, furnished with heavy-looking mahogany and leather. There were many pictures on the walls—oil-paintings set in heavy, tarnished gilt frames. Some handsome bronzes stood on the mantelshelf, and were reflected in the inevitable mirror. So far everything was ordinary, but the object on which Mrs. Tregoning's eyes rested almost immediately on entering was not such as could be seen in many rooms.

A little to the left of the window, and so placed that the light fell full upon it, there stood upon a pedestal a marble bust representing a female head of rare grace and dignity. The strongly-marked features were not strictly beautiful, but the Minerva-like repose of the expression was grand. Here was the sculptor's most living work. Into it he had poured all his soul. When he took up his tools again after his wife's death, it was to work at this. He had executed the bust rapidly, under the passionate promptings of his love and grief. The wild anguish with which his heart was riven had been relieved by this endeavour to show in marble the beauty and worth of the wife he had tenderly loved, and the work had saved him from madness or despair.

Instinctively Mrs. Tregoning guessed what forces had wrought in the production of that marble form, which so vividly recalled to memory the friend of her girlhood, the object of as strong and lasting an attachment as ever passed by the name of friendship.

Tears sprang to Mrs. Tregoning's eyes as she gazed on the placid face. Her love for her friend was not dead. Can true love die because the loved one has passed within the veil of death? For Mrs. Tregoning such a change was impossible. It was her love for her friend which had brought her to the sculptor's house this day.

"How lovely! How exactly like her! Ah, my sweet Ida!" sighed Mrs. Tregoning.

About the pedestal were placed some handsome ferns in pots, and on a small table before the bust stood a little glass basket containing white violets, whose fragrance filled the room.

As her eyes fell on these, Mrs. Tregoning said to herself: "Then her child lives, for surely it is her hand that has arranged these flowers and ferns about her mother's image."

She looked round the room again. There were other traces of feminine taste—some snowdrops in slender vases amongst the bronzes on the mantelshelf, an embroidered "couvre pied" on the dark leathern sofa, some quaint dark blue plates hung here and there beneath the heavy picture-frames. But ere Mrs. Tregoning could observe more, the door opened, and Antonio Nicolari stood before her.

"Mrs. Tregoning," he said, bowing low, "it is many years since last we met."

"You may well say that," she replied, as she gave him her hand; "half my life seems to have gone by since then. I was almost afraid to come, lest my coming should seem an intrusion, after so long an interval."

"You had no right to fear that," he said; "how could I be other than glad to see one who was her friend?"

By a slight but reverent bend of the head, he indicated his wife's bust as he spoke.

"Then he has not married again, as I half expected," thought Mrs. Tregoning, though she could hardly have given a logical demonstration of her method of arriving at this conclusion.

She had known comparatively little of her friend's husband, having seen Ida Nicolari but twice since her marriage. She herself had been married several years earlier, and at the time of her friend's marriage, her mind had been possessed by anxiety on account of her husband's health, which had broken down so completely that the only chance of prolonging his existence lay in removal to a more genial climate. Ida had been but a bride of a few weeks when Mrs. Tregoning started with her husband for Australia.

Yet Mrs. Tregoning had retained a distinct impression of Antonio Nicolari. She was surprised to see how much he had altered. When she made his acquaintance, he was a man in mature life. But the years of trouble and toil and whole-souled devotion to Art which he had passed since she saw him had aged him more than their mere number justified. Yet there was that in the worn, lined face that called forth her admiration. It was the face of an artist, and every line told of deep thought and earnest toil. There were patience and strength and penetrative insight in the calm gaze of the large grey, deep-sunken eyes, overhung by such shaggy eyebrows. The strong iron-grey hair was parted in straight lines above a forehead of grand proportions, cleft and furrowed with lines that gave witness to the constant working of the artist mind. Yet there was more of melancholy than of hope in the expression of the countenance.

But of this Mrs. Tregoning was hardly aware. In her way she was observant, but she had not the sympathetic intuition that can penetrate below the surface of another's life. She only knew that she liked the look of Antonio's grave, thoughtful face, and that it inspired her with confidence in him as a good and trustworthy man.

"Thank you," she said gently, in response to his words, as she turned again to look at the bust; "I should not have doubted. How vividly that recalls her! I need not ask if it is your work."

"Yes, it is mine," he said with a sigh, "but it is not what I could wish. I look upon it as a failure."

"Surely it is not that," she replied, "but I understand. I cannot tell you what a grief it was to me when, in my distant home, I heard the news of your loss. It did not reach me till long after the event. I thought of writing to you, but so many months had passed that I feared my words might reopen the wound that was beginning to close. Besides, it is not easy for me to put my deepest feelings on paper. The written words seem so cold and conventional."

"I thank you that you did not write," said Antonio, quietly; "I should have had cause for thankfulness had all my friends been as discreet. When one's heart is bleeding, words do but torture."

"I know what you must have suffered," said Mrs. Tregoning, tremulously. "It was bitter grief to me to know that my friend had passed from earth, but for you it meant utter desolation. Such a pure and gentle spirit was Ida's!"

"Yes," said the sculptor, sadly, "she was too pure to breathe long the gross air of earth. 'Whom the gods love die young.'"

"There is a question I am longing to ask," said Mrs. Tregoning; "I hope you can answer it without pain. The newspaper in which I read that most sad news informed me also of the birth of Ida's daughter. Has the child lived?"

"I am thankful that I can answer that question in the affirmative," said Antonio, his face softening as he spoke. "My daughter is the light of my life; it would be dreary indeed without her, despite my loved art."

"And is she like her mother?" asked Mrs. Tregoning, eagerly. "Why, she can hardly be a child now—it is eighteen years since dear Ida passed away."

"You are right," he said sadly. "The fifth of this month was the eighteenth anniversary of that dark day. Eighteen years! And yet sometimes it seems as if it were but yesterday."

"You have not yet told me whether your daughter resembles her mother," urged Mrs. Tregoning.

"Resembles her? Yes, verily, but she is cast in a more delicate mould, my little Ida. Her beauty is purely Grecian. She has inherited some of the lineaments of my father's mother—you know that I am of Greek descent?"

"I did not know it," said Mrs. Tregoning; "I fancied you were of Italian birth."

"No, my father's family was Greek, but he broke loose from all the traditions of his race and alienated his relatives by his marriage with a Scotswoman. Ida has the look of my race, and yet she strikingly resembles her mother. But you shall see her presently, and judge for yourself. First, will you suffer me to ask you a few questions? For my memory is bad for what lies outside my own life. You went abroad, I remember, soon after we married, but—you must pardon me—I have quite forgotten what was your destination."

"We went to Queensland," said Mrs. Tregoning. "My husband was advised to go there for his health."

"Ah yes, I remember," said Antonio, speaking with the air of one striving to recall facts that have escaped his memory. "I remember she was distressed on your account. And did your husband benefit by the change? Pardon me—I know not if he still lives."

"No," said Mrs. Tregoning, "it is nearly ten years since he passed away. But the change certainly prolonged his life. He could not have lived as many months in England as he lived years out there."

"And when did you return to England?" he asked.

"Not till some five years ago," she answered. "There were many reasons which induced me to remain at Brisbane. You may not remember that my husband was a clergyman. After our arrival in Queensland, as soon as his health was sufficiently restored, he applied to the Bishop of Brisbane, to whom we had an introduction, and the Bishop was able to give him the charge of a vacant church. So we settled down and made our home there, and very happy we were till—"

The old sculptor's face had settled into its accustomed sternness, but its expression softened once more, as he saw that emotion checked Mrs. Tregoning's utterance, and she was struggling with tears.

"Have you no child?" he asked gently.

"Ah yes," she replied, smiling through her tears, "I have my son. Do you not remember him? I brought him once for Ida to see. He was five years old when we went abroad. Ah, you cannot remember such a mere child!"

"I am sorry that I cannot," he said. "She would have remembered him, doubtless. But pray tell me about him. Where is he, and what is he doing?"

"At present he is at Oxford, studying for the Church," said the mother, with a proud ring in her voice, "but his term of study has all but expired. I have been living at Oxford, in order to be near him, but now I have come to town to look about for another home, which I trust he will share with me. I have long cherished a desire to renew my acquaintance with you, but circumstances have conspired against my doing so till now. For some time after my return home I was an invalid, and unable to visit any of my friends."

"I am sorry to hear that; you do not look too strong now," said Antonio, gently. "Well, I am pleased that you have come to-day. And so your son is studying for the Church!" There was a fall in Antonio's voice as he made the last remark, but Mrs. Tregoning failed to guess the meaning of its melancholy inflection.

"Yes," she said cheerfully; "I am glad to say that he is going to follow his father's profession. I was most anxious that he should do so. It was the best thing for him. He has relations in the Church who take great interest in Theodore, and he has every prospect of doing well. Not that I could wish him to be guided by worldly motives. I should not have urged it on him if I had not thought him eminently qualified for such a calling."

"Humph!" said Antonio, grimly. "And how does he regard it? Does he think himself eminently qualified, or at least really 'called' to this profession?"

"Well, yes, I hope so," said Mrs. Tregoning, rather doubtfully. "He did not at first, I must confess. My son and I were separated for several years. After his father's death, his grandmother undertook to have him educated, and he came over to England when he was thirteen years old, and lived with her until her death five years ago. His grandfather was a physician—perhaps you remember old Dr. Tregoning? And Theodore had an idea that he would like to study medicine, an idea which his grandmother rather fostered."

"And you disapproved it?" asked Antonio.

"It was not in my power to give him a medical education," she said. "The Dean, who is a wealthy man, promised to meet the expenses of his college course if he would study for the Church. Theodore had the good sense to yield to his godfather's wishes, and he is now quite reconciled to the idea of the Church."

"Reconciled to it!" exclaimed Antonio, in a tone which startled Mrs. Tregoning. "Do you mean to say that you are content for your son to embrace a profession to which he needs to be 'reconciled?'"

"Oh, you do not understand," said Mrs. Tregoning, a vivid flush suffusing her pale countenance. "Theodore is a good Christian; he is studious, high-principled, and most steady in all his habits. I believe he will make an admirable clergyman."

"An admirable clergyman!" repeated Antonio, indignantly.

Mrs. Tregoning's colour deepened, and she looked at him with astonishment and some alarm.

"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, seeing that she was startled. "I fear that we shall hardly agree with respect to your son's profession. It seems to me that you would have done a better and wiser thing if you had set him to break stones in the road."

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking utterly bewildered.

"Simply that to me a clergyman is one of the most contemptible creatures on earth—a man who has sold himself to perpetuate a lie, a man who dares not look facts in the face, a man who either blindly deceives himself or wilfully sets himself to deceive others!"

Mrs. Tregoning fairly gasped as these words were uttered, not vehemently, but with a quiet, incisive bitterness which showed that they were prompted by no transient emotion.

"Oh, surely, you do not think," she faltered, "that Theodore does not believe the truth of the Gospel? I assure you he has never been in the least sceptical."

"The more the pity," said old Antonio, grimly; "there would be some hope for him if he had."

A silence of several minutes followed this remark. Mrs. Tregoning's mind was thrown into temporary confusion, and only by slow degrees did she perceive what the sculptor's strange words might mean.

"Oh, Mr. Nicolari!" she exclaimed at last. "You do not mean—it cannot be that you do not believe the Gospel?"

"I never have been able either to believe or to understand what you are pleased to call the Gospel," he replied calmly.

"Never believed it?" she repeated in a shocked, grieved tone. "And you Ida's husband! Was there ever a sweeter Christian woman?"

"Never," he said emphatically; "there was never a sweeter, purer woman, but it was not her religion that made her what she was. She was by nature all that is good and noble and lovely. And when you mention her, you remind me of the most bitter source of the abhorrence with which I regard the falsity and hypocrisy which passes under the name of Christianity. You do not know the circumstances which shortened her life; you cannot understand what is the most bitter drop in my cup of sorrow."

"I know no more than I gathered from the newspaper—that she died when her baby was born," said Mrs. Tregoning.

"Ah yes, you know nothing of the harassing poverty, the wearing sorrow that went before and slowly sapped her vitality, so that she had no strength with which to meet her hour of trial. And who was the cause of it? Her father, her Christian father, the well-to-do Rector of Saint Anne's. You remember the circumstances of our marriage?"

"I know that Ida married you without her father's consent," said Mrs. Tregoning, "indeed, I fear I encouraged her in so doing. It seemed to me that he was not justified in seeking to control her in the matter. She was five-and-twenty, and had a right to choose for herself. Her father did not need her since he had married his second wife."

"So we thought," said Nicolari, "but do you know that man, that Christian man, could never forgive his daughter for acting contrary to his will? He refused to see her or hold any communication with her after our marriage. His unkindness well-nigh broke my darling's heart, for she was a loving daughter. Again and again she wrote to entreat his forgiveness, but her letters were returned unopened. The fear that she had done wrong weighed upon her gentle spirit. Her health began to fail; one trouble after another came upon us. I was very poor in those days." Involuntarily Antonio, as he spoke, glanced round the room, which, sombre as it looked, had yet an air of substantial comfort.

"Poor Ida!" sighed Mrs. Tregoning. "She had such a sensitive spirit. She could not fail to feel her father's severity."

"Ah yes, it clouded her life," he said. And now the composure he had hitherto maintained gave way, and he spoke in quick, agitated tones: "And we had to face actual, grinding poverty. She bore it so bravely, my poor darling, but—I knew when it was too late that she had stinted herself of necessary food in her pitiful struggle to make ends meet. Her life was shortened by want, and he, her father, was living in ease and plenty, yet refused his child a helping hand."

"Did he indeed refuse? Did you seek his help?"

"I did," said Antonio, fiercely; "for her sake I humbled myself as I never thought to humble myself. I went to that man, and implored him, almost with tears, to put aside his resentment, for the sake of saving his daughter's life, for I saw that she was pining away. But in vain I pleaded. His pride would not yield. He had a heart of stone."

"How shocking, how deplorable!" ejaculated Mrs. Tregoning. "I cannot tell you how grieved I am to hear this. And did he never relent?"

"Not till it was too late," said Antonio, bitterly; "when my darling was gone, he sent to entreat me to go to him."

"And you went?"

"Not I," said Antonio. "Do you think I could have borne to look upon the man then? I dared not trust myself in his presence, for, as he had shown no mercy to his child, I should have shown no mercy to him. I sent him words that must have pierced him like daggers, if he had any spirit of fatherhood left. Not long after I heard of his death, and I was thankful that earth was rid of so mean a soul. Then I received a solicitor's letter telling me that he had left my child some thousands of pounds. I would have refused the legacy for her if I could, but that was not in my power. The money was put into trust for her; it will be Ida's when she is twenty-one."

"Ah, then, he did repent at last," observed Mrs. Tregoning. "His conduct was certainly inconsistent with his religion. But, Mr. Nicolari, it is not fair to judge of Christianity by one bad specimen."

"Unfortunately I have known many such," said the sculptor, with a bitter smile. "The Christian religion is excellent in theory, the life of its Founder was a grand one, and His teaching noble. But I cannot accept the supernatural element of historical Christianity."

"But surely you believe in God and the future life?" asked Mrs. Tregoning, fearfully. "You are not an Atheist?"

"I do not say that there is no God," replied Antonio, slowly. "I can only say that He has not revealed Himself to me. And what can we know of a future life? The bird flitting out of the dark night into the lighted hall, and then passing out into the darkness again, seems to me to typify our passage through this life."

"What a dreadful thought!" said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little shiver. "But I know it is not so. And can you believe that Ida's spirit, that beautiful pure spirit, has for ever passed away? Have you no hope of meeting her again?"

The sculptor raised his hands in an imploring gesture. "Why speak of her? Why pierce my heart?" he exclaimed. "I know of no ground for such a hope. I agree with Plato, in deeming him the wise man who 'professes to know this only, that he nothing knows.'"

Mrs. Tregoning was bewildered and distressed. She had a horror of scepticism, and held to the conviction that doubt is "devil-born."

A pause ensued, which was broken by the entrance of a servant bringing tea. Then Antonio turned to his visitor and said:

"You will like to see my daughter?"

"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Tregoning, with alacrity; "I have been longing to see her ever since I came in."

"Anne," said Nicolari to the servant, "will you ask Miss Ida to come to us?"

Dismayed by the revelation of his inner life that Antonio had made, Mrs. Tregoning had begun to wonder what kind of girl she would find Ida Nicolari.

"Excuse me, Mr. Nicolari," she said, "but may I ask if your daughter shares your belief, or rather no-belief?"

"My daughter and I are in perfect sympathy," he answered proudly.

"Indeed," faltered Mrs. Tregoning; "has she then no religion?"

"Do you think that we are as the beasts, because we do not profess Christianity?" he asked with a smile. "Surely we have our religion, the religion of Duty, the religion of reaching up unto the highest truth, of living for the highest good."

But his words conveyed little meaning to Mrs. Tregoning's mind.

"Ida's daughter not a Christian!" she said sadly. "Have you let her grow up in ignorance of the faith which her mother held so dear?"

"I have," he replied firmly, "and I think I have done well. Ida knows little of Christianity, save such knowledge as is unavoidable in this 'Christian' country," he said, with bitter emphasis on the word "Christian."

As he finished speaking, his daughter entered the room.

She had exchanged her Greek dress for a more homely modern gown of olive-green serge, but this, too, had a quaint becoming grace, being made more in accordance with her own artistic ideas than with those of a fashionable dressmaker. The girl's exquisite, classical beauty took Mrs. Tregoning by surprise, although she had been prepared for a fair vision. As Ida stood looking at her with eager interest in her gaze, Mrs. Tregoning thought that she had never seen a more beautiful creature.

"Ida," said her father, "this is Mrs. Tregoning; she was your mother's friend."

"Then I am very glad to see her!" cried the girl impulsively, as she advanced with outstretched hand, the warmer colour in her cheeks and the glow in her eyes testifying to the sincerity of her welcome. "Surely, if she was my mother's friend, she will be my friend."

"Indeed I will, with all my heart," said Mrs. Tregoning, rising as impulsively and clasping the girl with both hands as she kissed her in true motherly fashion. "I cannot tell you how I loved your mother," she continued, her tones vibrating with emotion; "it is a great joy to me to see her child."

Ida's lips quivered and her cheek's hue paled as quickly as it had glowed. She drew a chair close to Mrs. Tregoning and sat down, her clear dark eyes resting on the lady with the trustful, artless gaze of a child.

"Oh, she is like her mother!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, turning to Antonio. "Her voice! Her expression! Her features differ from Ida's, yet I think I should have known her anywhere as Ida's child."

"You are right; she resembles her mother," said the old sculptor, visibly affected, yet striving to maintain his composure.

"My name, too, is Ida," said the girl, gently; "you will call me Ida, will you not?"

"With pleasure," said Mrs. Tregoning. "You must come and see me, Ida. I have taken apartments at Kensington, and that is not far from here. I hope I shall see much of you."

"I shall be very pleased," said Ida.

But her father interposed. "You must excuse my daughter, Mrs. Tregoning. She rarely makes visits. We keep pretty much to ourselves, Ida and I."

"But surely—" began Mrs. Tregoning, and then checked herself.

Ida had risen and was busying herself with the tea-things, but now, as she came forward to take Mrs. Tregoning's cup, she said in soft, persuasive tones, "Father, you will not refuse to let me visit my mother's friend?"

Mrs. Tregoning did not speak, but her glance made an appeal to Nicolari.

"We will see," he said shortly; "Ida knows how ill I can spare her at this time. I hope you will give us the pleasure of a visit, Mrs. Tregoning, as often as your engagements permit."

"Oh yes, do come again," said Ida, warmly.

"Thank you; I shall hope to do so," said Mrs. Tregoning, as she rose to go. "No, I must not stay longer now, but I will come again in a few days. And then I shall ask you, Mr. Nicolari, to let me look into your studio. And I do hope that you will spare Ida to me, at least for a day. Remember, I have no daughter of my own."

"We will see," said the sculptor once more. But now he smiled, and his tone was more gracious.

Mrs. Tregoning kissed the girl tenderly, and turned away with tears in her eyes.

Nicolari accompanied his visitor to the door and handed her into the fly that awaited her.

### CHAPTER III.

THE SCULPTOR'S PUPIL.

AS his visitor drove away, Antonio went back to the room, where Ida still stood at the window, to which she had hastened to watch Mrs. Tregoning's departure. He did not address her, but stood in silence for a while, gazing with mournful eyes on the marble image of his wife.

Ida knew that his mind was in the past, and she said nothing till, with a deep sigh, he turned to quit the room, when she arrested him with the question:

"Father, were you vexed because I wished to go to Mrs. Tregoning's?"

"No, not vexed," he said; "but—do you really care to visit her?"

"Oh, I should like it so much," she said earnestly. "Mrs. Tregoning is so kind. And you know I never go anywhere. Not that I mind that. I like best to stay at home with you, but it would be a change—just for once."

"Oh, woman, woman!" said her father half sadly, half playfully. "I thought you wiser than your sex, my Ida, but you have the woman's weakness after all—the love of change, the craving for excitement. Your mother had it not. She had the woman's virtue as defined by Plato—'to order her house and keep what is within doors and obey her husband.'"

"Ah yes," said Ida, giving him an arch look, "but you do not know how my mother may have felt when she was my age. And it is not mere love of change which makes me wish to see more of Mrs. Tregoning. My heart has gone out to her. I know she will be my friend, and I have no one to counsel me, save my faithful old Marie, who, you say yourself, is not over-wise. When Mrs. Tregoning put her arms about me and kissed me, I seemed to know for a moment what it would be to have a mother."

"It is enough," said her father, gently; "you shall go to Mrs. Tregoning's whenever you like."

She would have thanked him, but he had gone; and the next minute she heard the door of his private room close behind him.

Ida continued to stand before the window, till she was roused from the train of thought into which she had fallen by the entrance of a stout, comely woman in the prime of life, with black hair, small black sparkling eyes, and a somewhat ruddy complexion, harmonising well with her look of shrewd good-nature. Her abundant coils of hair were surmounted by all imposing-looking cap of stiff snowy muslin, and she wore a black gown of neatest make and fit.

This was Marie Lehmann, Ida's quondam nurse, but now the housekeeper and chief factotum of the sculptor's establishment. Antonio had met with her in Rome, whither he had betaken himself with his infant daughter, shortly after his wife's death. When the English nurse whom he had brought with him turned home-sick, and prayed to be allowed to return to her own country, Marie had taken her place, and devoted herself to the motherless babe with all the ardour of her warm, passionate nature. She was French by birth, but had passed most of her life in Italy. She loved the warmth and brilliance and gaiety of Southern life, but she loved her little Ida better. And when the sculptor resolved to return to England, she was not to be dissuaded from accompanying the child.

With remarkable ease, she accommodated herself to the change of country. She declared frankly that she detested London, with its fog and smoke, its dreary lack of spectacles, and its dull, unsociable citizens. Yet she continued to live there contentedly and even merrily. She won the sculptor's confidence by her warm devotion to her charge, and he held her in high esteem, whilst the child loved her, and clung to her as if she had been her mother.

Marie had now for some years been the wife of Fritz Lehmann, Nicolari's chief workman, who had served him even longer than Marie. She had tested her lover's devotion in a long-protracted courtship ere she would consent to wed him, with the stipulation that he should never ask her to leave her young lady. There was ample room for Marie and her husband in the sculptor's large old house, and Antonio was well pleased that they should dwell under his roof, Marie taking the general superintendence of domestic matters as well as acting as Ida's faithful duenna. Marie, with her quick, voluble tongue and French shrewdness and impetuosity, presented a striking contrast to her husband, who was slow and sententious in speech, and of a most equable temper.

Marie came into the room and began to gather the tea-things together, as though she had come with the sole purpose of carrying them away. But Ida knew better. She divined that Marie was curious to hear about the lady-visitor who had just taken her departure, and that it was with the hope of having a chat she had taken upon herself the duty which was Anne's. Ida was not unwilling to gratify her. She had lost none of her affection for her old nurse as she grew into girlhood.

"Well, Marie," she said, "did you see our visitor?"

"Yes, Miss Ida," Marie answered briskly. "I saw her, for I was at my window when she passed out and got into her carriage. A gracious-looking lady, but so tall and thin, so very English!"

"What would you have her?" Ida asked. "Mrs. Tregoning 'is' English. She was an intimate friend of my mother, Marie."

"Indeed!" said Marie, looking interested. "She has not been here before in my time that I know, for I never forget people. She looks a real lady, far more of a lady than that duchess who was here the other day, and spoke to me as if I were not worthy to breathe the same air."

"Yes, Mrs. Tregoning is a lady," said Ida, thoughtfully; "she has come to live in London, and she wishes me to visit her."

"Ah, that is good!" exclaimed Marie, raising her hands with a quick gesture of delight. "It will be well for you, Miss Ida, to have such a lady for your friend. She will take you out, perhaps, and show you a little of the world, and that is what you want. Often have I said to Fritz that it was monstrous a young girl like you should lead such a dull life, shut up within the walls of this house like a nun in a convent. You might as well be old and ugly, instead of being as fair and fresh as a snowdrop."

"How you talk, Marie!" returned Ida, smiling. "I am no prisoner; do I not walk out every day when the weather is fine?"

"Yes, but an hour's walk along the Embankment, or a visit to the shops, what is that?" asked Marie, quickly. "You want lively companions, amusements, gaiety. Youth is the time for pleasure. As I say, you might as well be old and ugly—"

"I am content," said Ida, yet a little sigh escaped with the words. "My father has no one but me to care for him and cheer him. I do not wish for pleasures that he could not share."

"But you ought to wish for them," persisted the Frenchwoman; "it is unnatural that you should be content to lead so quiet a life, old before you are young. Ah, who comes here? Can it be Master Wilfred at last?"

The sound of a latch-key being pushed into the hall-door had caught her ear. It was followed by the noise of some one entering the house and closing the door behind him with considerable energy.

"Yes, it is Wilfred—at last," said Ida; "he comes now the light is gone."

The next minute the individual thus named came quickly into the room, with the air of one quite at home there. He was a young man in his twenty-second year, but so boyish was his mien that most persons would have taken him for younger. Of middle height, and slightly made, he was generally insignificant in appearance, with bluish-grey eyes, a snub nose, a light drooping moustache, half concealing the weakness of the mouth, and a chin of retreating tendency. The upper was the better half of the face, for the forehead was good, indicating both intelligence and capacity, and the light-brown hair above had a becoming curl. A face not commended by description, yet not unpleasing by virtue of a vivid brightness of expression, the look of one on excellent terms with himself, and disposed to be equally amiable towards others.

"Good morning, Ida," he said, with a bow and smile which expressed a trifle too much self-assurance.

"Good morning, Wilfred, if it is not too late," she replied; "where have you been all day?"

"Not at work, evidently," he said, with a little laugh; "I have been down to the docks with the governor, to look over a new steamer. We had luncheon on board, and he would stop to talk to a lot or old cronies, so you see it has taken a big slice out of my day."

"A big slice indeed," said Ida smiling. "When will your Clytie be finished, if you take so many holidays?"

"Ah, when!" he said lightly. "Of course you are horribly shocked at my idleness. But don't be afraid, Ida. I shall finish it in a few days, when once I set to work in real earnest. Stay, Marie, don't take the tea away. I should be glad of a cup."

"But this is cold, Master Wilfred," she said; "if you wait a minute, I will bring you some fresh tea."

"Ah, thanks; that will be better," he said. "Now, Ida, I will make you a drawing of a curious being I saw down at the docks. It is really worth one's while to go there for the sake of new ideas."

He had seated himself on the edge of the table, and now searching his pockets, he produced pencil and paper, and with a few rapid strokes executed a comical sketch of an old Hindoo whom he had seen selling ointment. His sketch accomplished, he tossed it to Ida; apparently she was accustomed to unceremonious treatment from this young man. He now turned his attention to the snowdrops on the mantelshelf and began to rearrange them with his long slender fingers. His white shapely hands with their dexterous artist fingers were the chief beauty Nature had bestowed on him. After touching and retouching the flowers, he finally abstracted two or three, and fastened them in his button hole.

"Oh, thief!" exclaimed Ida. "To steal my snowdrops before my very eyes!"

"It is not stealing," returned Wilfred, coolly. "I know you would wish me to have them."

"You might at least have asked my permission before helping yourself," said Ida. "But I fear you are incorrigible. From your earliest days, every one about you has conspired to spoil you."

"As if I were capable of being spoiled!" replied the young man. "My mother, by the way, gives you all the credit for that sort of thing."

"Does she think that I spoil you?" exclaimed Ida, with an air of amazement. "What a mistake! I verily believe that I am the only person who speaks the truth to you and tries to correct your faults."

"You are always speaking of my faults," said Wilfred, with perfect serenity. "You think me lazy because I do not stick at work as your father does. But I do not believe in constant plodding. I think there should be pauses for inspiration. An artist is not like a shoemaker, who can work at any or every time. It would be better for your father if he had not worked so incessantly. He has worn-out his eyes."

"No, no, not so!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of distress. "Not worn them out, Wilfred. They will be better soon. It cannot be otherwise."

"Yes, yes, of course; I did not mean that they really worn-out," said Wilfred, hastily. "Have you been posing as Psyche to-day?"

"Yes," she said, "I stood twice. The work has made progress. But I must tell you what a wonderful thing has happened. We have had a visitor to-day."

"That is nothing very remarkable," he said.

"Oh, but I do not mean a visitor to the studio," she said; "a visitor who came to see us, a lady who knew my mother." And she went on to give him an account of Mrs. Tregoning's visit.

He listened with interest.

"I am glad she has invited you to visit her," he remarked when she had told him all there was to tell.

"So am I," said Ida. "But why are you glad?"

"It will do you so much good to get out a little," he replied.

"Why, that is just what Marie has been saying!" exclaimed Ida. "What makes you think it will do me good?"

"Oh, I can hardly explain," he said nonchalantly. "But it would be a good thing for you to mix more with other people. You know, Ida—although, of course, I think you perfection—you are very different from most girls of your age."

"Am I?" she said, looking a little surprised. "How so? In what way do I differ from them?"

"In every way," was the sweeping reply; "you look, speak, and act quite differently from most girls. There is a quaintness about you—I rather admire it, but still, you won't be offended with me for saying it?—Most persons would call you—'old-fashioned.'"

"Why should I be offended?" she asked, looking smilingly at him. "Is it such a dreadful thing to be old-fashioned? Would you like me better if I squeezed in my waist, wore a large crinolette, and frizzed my hair?"

"Of course not. Indeed, I cannot fancy you like that. But still, if you were more with other girls—" He hesitated, at a loss how to express himself.

Ida took up his broken sentence.

"I might grow like them, and then you would admire me more," she said, laughing. "Ah, here comes Marie with the tea. I will ask her opinion. Marie, tell me, am I so very old-fashioned?"

The question started the Frenchwoman off on a dissertation far too diffuse to be recorded here.

Wilfred listened with amusement for a while, interjecting many ludicrous comments, then, wearying of Marie's chatter, he drank his tea and betook himself to the studio.

Ida and Wilfred had been friends from the days of their childhood, when Wilfred's parents lived in the house adjoining the sculptor's. Wilfred was the youngest of his family. His parents had lost several children, and a gap of ten years divided him in age from the youngest of the three sisters older than himself who completed the family. It was not strange that the boy, so much younger than the rest, should be almost idolised by his parents and become the pet of his three fond sisters.

Ida had not been wrong in saying that they had all combined to spoil him, for seldom was child more indulged. As he had no companion of his own age at home, his parents had been glad that he should find one in their neighbour's motherless little girl. The children became warmly attached to each other, and as Antonio liked ever to have his little Ida at hand, and Master Wilfred insisted on having as much of her company as possible, it came to pass that it was most often in the sculptor's home that the children played together. Even as a child, Ida was allowed the run of the studio. And since she was more gentle and careful in her ways than most children, she did little mischief there.

Wilfred, who was more meddlesome, was less welcome in the studio. It was a place he loved. The sculptor's work had a strong fascination for the boy. He loved to watch Antonio as he moulded his models, or Fritz as he worked at the rough marble.

Nothing pleased him more than to have a lump of the moist clay given to him and be allowed to make of it what he would. And the forms which the little hands modelled in imitation of the sculptor's work had so much merit that they attracted Antonio's attention and he declared that the boy was a born sculptor. Wilfred had already decided that when he grew up, he would be a sculptor like Mr. Nicolari, and the idea proved to be more than a transient boyish fancy. As he approached manhood, he made his parents aware that he intended to live for Art, and that it was vain for them to seek to dissuade him from his purpose.

To his father, a prosperous ship-broker who had looked forward to his son's helping him in his business, this decision of Wilfred's was a sore vexation. William Ormiston knew little about Art and cared less. He had an idea that it was a pursuit only suited for persons of weak capacity, deficient in the strong common-sense and keen-sighted shrewdness on which he prided himself. He could not understand why his son should wish to be a sculptor. The chances of success in such a calling were so slight, the prizes it offered so uncertain. And when such an excellent business position awaited Wilfred, if he would but step into it! The lad must be demented! Very reluctantly did he yield his consent, wrung from him by his wife's pleadings and Wilfred's passionate protestations, to his son's becoming the sculptor's pupil. He gave in, but it was with the hope that Wilfred would ere long weary of his Art and come willingly to his right place in his father's office.

There was ground for such hope, for Wilfred did not devote himself to Art with the whole-souled enthusiasm which would have pleased the sculptor. Antonio found in his pupil no second self. The hopes and fears and high resolves which had animated his early efforts were not experienced by Wilfred. The indulgence and luxury with which the lad had been reared had spoiled him for hard work. Wilfred had always as much money at his command as he needed for the gratification of his somewhat expensive tastes and habits. If he loved Art, he loved pleasure better, and its pursuit often drew him from the studio, to the despair of Nicolari, who saw in his pupil real talent, and was distressed that he should follow his high calling in such unsteady, dilettante fashion.

"He might excel me if he would," Antonio would sometimes say plaintively. "When I was his age, I could not do as he does. The lad is really clever, but his cleverness will come to naught through his abominable laziness."

Ida would gently shake her head when she heard her father say that Wilfred might excel him. The sculptor could not be satisfied with his own achievements. But Ida felt that Wilfred's work would never bear comparison with her father's. Clever though the young man undoubtedly was, his skill was inspired by no spark of the divine fire of genius, and Ida could see this as her father could not. She had no illusions where Wilfred was concerned. They had grown up together almost like brother and sister. He was the only young companion she had ever had, and he was dear to her, but she was well aware of his faults. Though Wilfred, by no means always sweet-tempered at home, was never other than kind and pleasant to Ida.

Ida thought much of Mrs. Tregoning during the remainder of the day. Her coming had made an agreeable break in the placid flow of the girl's existence, for, serene and contented as she generally was, there were times when Ida felt the monotony of her life to be irksome. Something had happened at last. She had a presentiment that Mrs. Tregoning's visit was eventful, and the future would not be just what the past had been. She looked eagerly for the lady's coming again, but Ida's patience was to be tried, for the visit was not repeated so soon as she expected.

When three weeks had passed without bringing her, Ida was conscious of considerable disappointment. Had her mother's friend forgotten her? At last, some days later, came a note from Mrs. Tregoning which set Ida's heart at rest. It ran as follows:—

"Westfield Road, Kensington.
"DEAREST IDA,—I have not forgotten you, although I have given you cause to think so. Since I saw you, I have been much engaged with matters of business, domestic details, or receiving and visiting old friends, and have found it impossible to get to Chelsea. And now I have fallen ill with a touch of bronchitis, and my doctor forbids my leaving the house whilst this cold wind lasts. Will you take pity on me, Ida, and come and spend to-morrow here? Tell your father I shall be deeply grateful to him if he will spare you to me for to-morrow. I take luncheon at one o'clock, but pray come as early as you can. With much love from—
"Your Friend,
"ELIZABETH TREGONING."

Antonio made no difficulty about sparing his daughter, and Ida, usually so tranquil in mind, felt strangely excited as she looked forward to the morrow's pleasure.

### CHAPTER IV.

GERALDINE SEABROOK.

IT was a keen morning in early March when Ida, accompanied by her faithful Marie, set out for Westfield Road, Kensington. But though keen, the air was clear. The east wind still blew, but ever and again the sun broke out and brightened the dull, straight roads they had to traverse on their way to Kensington. Marie was full of complaints about the wind and the dust, but Ida appeared hardly aware of these disagreeables, and her face wore a look of childish delight which made her guardian smile as she looked at her, and say to herself, "Ah, she is like other girls after all! She is pleased to have a little change."

Westfield Road, a long wide road of stuccoed houses with heavy porches all exactly alike, was presently gained, and at the door of the house in which Mrs. Tregoning was living, Ida dismissed her attendant, and went up alone to the suite of rooms on the first floor in which that lady was established.

"Mrs. Tregoning will be with you presently," said the servant, as she opened the door of the front drawing-room; "she begs you will excuse her for a few minutes, as the doctor has just called."

Ida went forward into a large but somewhat shabbily furnished drawing-room with two windows looking into the road.

"Miss Nicolari," said the servant, announcing her, and then Ida perceived that the room was not unoccupied.

Leaning back, very much at her ease, in a deep armchair was a young lady whose prettiness of face and form at once attracted Ida's admiration. She was wrapped in a handsome mantle of sealskin, but she had removed her hat of the same fur, and her head, with its crown of flossy golden hair, piled up in wonderful masses above the fringe of soft locks which shaded her brows, showed well above the rich dark sealskin. It was a head more remarkable for its beauty than for the intellectual power it betokened. She was sitting sideways, one hand—such a dainty little white hand—glittering with costly gems, half supporting her head, which was turned from the door, whilst her eyes, long-shaped, deep-fringed eyes of clearest violet, rested on the mantelshelf, where were arranged several photographs variously executed and framed, but all the portraits bearing a marked resemblance to each other, as though one face was depicted under various phases.

At the sound of the servant's voice, the young lady turned, but languidly, as though loth to disturb too abruptly the grace of her pose. As she saw Ida, she rose and, bowing, greeted her with voice and manner most sweet and courteous.

"Miss Nicolari," she said, "Mrs. Tregoning told me that she was expecting you. It is too annoying that that tiresome doctor should arrive just at this time. I must introduce myself since there is no one else to do it. I am Geraldine Seabrook, and Mrs. Tregoning is one of my dearest friends. Pray come to the fire. Is not this a wretched morning?"

"I cannot say that I have found it so," said Ida, as she took the chair which the other pushed forward for her; "it is rather cold certainly, but the sun is bright."

She sat down, as calmly self-possessed as if she were in her own house, and regarded the stranger with frank interest. Shyness was an experience unknown to Ida Nicolari. Her secluded girlhood had bred in her no awkward self-consciousness, simply because she was never wont to think much about herself or to trouble herself at all about what others might think of her. As her father's constant companion, Ida lived in a world of grand and elevating thought, far above the ordinary ideas of girlhood, and this to some extent explained the peculiarity that Wilfred discerned in her—a peculiarity of which her new acquaintance was conscious as she observed her covertly, feeling somewhat abashed, though she was several years older, and a woman of the world in comparison with Ida, as she encountered the childlike simplicity of the sculptor's daughter.

"I suppose she goes in for being æsthetic," thought this young lady, observing the graceful, simple fashion of Ida's brown velvet and sable. "Well, she is wise, for it suits her admirably. What a perfect face! As pure and classic as a cameo! Mrs. Tregoning is right; she is certainly unique."

"Are you one of those strong-minded people who profess to enjoy what they call 'bracing' weather?" she said aloud.

"I enjoy cold weather when it is clear and bright," said Ida. "Do you mean that some people say they like it when they do not? I should not call that being strong-minded."

"Oh, dear!" thought Miss Seabrook. "Does she want to get up an argument and chop logic with me? She is more formidable than I thought." But she only said smilingly, "You are right; it is not," and then with a graceful shiver nestled more cosily into the great chair.

Ida was struck with the beauty of the little head, so charmingly set on the exquisitely moulded throat. Her eyes dwelt with pleasure on the fair cheek, with its blush-rose tint, the prettily rounded chin, the small though irregular features. There was a pouting, petulant, spoilt child air about the little mouth, with its closely drawn under-lip. But Ida's was not the gaze of a physiognomist. She only thought how exquisite the soft colouring and the flower-like prettiness of the face before her.

But now the violet eyes were turned on her once more, and Miss Seabrook said:

"It is a pleasure to me to meet you, Miss Nicolari, because I admire your father's work so much. My father is somewhat of a connoisseur, and he thinks most highly of Mr. Nicolari's sculpture. We always look for his statues in the Academy."

Unconsciously, perhaps, Miss Seabrook spoke with somewhat of a patronising air, but it was lost upon Ida. She smiled and said she was glad Miss Seabrook liked her father's statues.

"I wish I could see more of them," said the young lady; "I have only seen one here and there. Is there a collection on view anywhere?"

"There is no public collection of my father's works," said Ida. "One or two of the statues in St. Paul's Cathedral were executed by him, and there are others to be seen in various parts of London. The best collection I know is that which the studio contains. There are duplicates of nearly all the statues. If you would like to see them, I am sure my father would be very pleased to show them to you."

"Oh, do you mean that he would let me see his studio?" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with an air of delight, which was in part assumed, for she was hardly prepared for such a reply to her question. "I should be so pleased; I have never seen a sculptor's studio, though I have often had a strong wish to do so. And my father—it would be just what he would most enjoy."

"Then pray come any day that will suit you," said Ida.

"Oh, thank you," replied Miss Seabrook; "I should like to avail myself of your kind invitation, but I should be dreadfully afraid of arriving at an inconvenient time and interrupting some important work."

"You need not fear that," said Ida. "If it should happen that my father was especially engaged, he would tell you so, and ask you to come another time. He always says exactly what he means."

"Dear me, how inconvenient he must find it!" said Miss Seabrook, lightly. But with a quick change of manner, she added: "Yet what a comfort it is to meet with persons who really do speak the truth! There is so much falsity in our life, is there not?"

Ida looked at her with a puzzled expression, as with a faint sigh she rose and moved nearer to the fireplace.

"Now here," she said, directing Ida's attention to a portrait which occupied a conspicuous place on the mantelshelf, "here is a man of whom the same may be said. I have never known any one more outspoken. But I daresay you know Mrs. Tregoning's son?" She glanced at Ida with a subtle, searching look in her long eyes as she thus put the question.

"No, I do not. Is that Mrs. Tregoning's son?" Ida, springing up and coming nearer. She gazed with interest on the handsome manly face which looked out from the rich velvet case.

It was a coloured photograph, and showed the warm tones of the face with its setting of dark hair and the dark hazel eyes defined by sharply delineated eyelids. The element of masculine strength was most marked in the countenance, yet the mouth, though firm, was tender, and the jaw powerful, without showing any tendency to harshness or tyranny. What was most pleasing was the frank expression, the look of noble simplicity which the countenance wore. It was easy to believe that truthfulness was a distinguishing trait of this character.

"Is he not handsome?" asked Miss Seabrook, as she saw how earnestly Ida was observing the portrait.

"He is more than handsome," said Ida, slowly; "he has a noble face! He looks so good."

"Oh, as for that, he is none too good," said Miss Seabrook, lightly. "He did not take at all kindly to his mother's wish that he should be a clergyman, and I believe he secretly rebels against it still. Theodore Tregoning has a temper of his own, although he looks so pleasant here."

"Is it wrong of him not to wish to be a clergyman?" asked Ida. "Might he not have good reasons for not liking to be one?"

"Why, yes, of course," replied Miss Seabrook, "but yet he has had so clear a call. How can a Christian soul hold back when called to devote itself to our Holy Church? What calling is so noble, so exalted as that of the Christian priesthood? Do you not agree with me?"

As she spoke, Geraldine Seabrook, perhaps involuntarily, threw back her fur mantle, and Ida caught sight of a large silver cross hanging on the front of her black gown.

"I am unable to agree with you," she replied, "simply because I am not a Christian."

The words so quietly uttered had a startling effect upon Geraldine Seabrook.

"Not a Christian!" she exclaimed almost breathlessly as she surveyed her companion with an amazement tinged with horror. "Why, whatever can you mean?"

"I mean what I say," said Ida; "I am not a Christian. My father does not believe in the Christian religion."

"Oh, how dreadful!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, involuntarily drawing back a few steps, and then sinking again into the armchair, which she pushed to a farther distance from Ida. "Is your father then an Atheist?"

"Oh no," said Ida, quickly, "he does not say that there is no God. Plato and all the great philosophers believed in a Deity of perfect wisdom and goodness; and my father does not declare them mistaken. He says only that he has no clear conception of such truth."

"Then I suppose he is what is called an Agnostic?" said Miss Seabrook.

"Perhaps; I do not know," replied Ida, looking troubled. "I do not altogether understand my father's mind."

"And you say that you are not a Christian?" said her companion, regarding her curiously. "Do you never go to church?"

"I have never been to church in my life," said Ida, quietly; "my father always told me it would do me no good to go."

"Oh, how shocking! How wicked of him to keep you from the sacred ordinances of the Church!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, warmly. "Why, he must be no better than an infidel."

The vivid colour which flew into Ida's cheeks at these words warned her that she had spoken too unguardedly.

"I do not know what you mean by 'no better than an infidel,'" Ida exclaimed, with indignation in her tones, "but I am sure of this, that there are not many Christians worthy to be compared to my father in goodness. He has taught me that goodness is the highest beauty, that there is no true beauty without it, indeed, and that we ought to love the good above everything, and hate and scorn whatever is evil. Have Christians a higher aim?"

"I beg your pardon," said Geraldine Seabrook, coldly. "I did not mean that your father was unprincipled. But I fear we shall hardly agree as to what constitutes goodness. I cannot believe in its existence apart from religion." She folded her hands in her lap, pressed her small rosy lips more tightly together, and sat looking straight before her with a self-satisfied, irreproachable expression of countenance, which might have amused Ida had she not been so deeply wounded.

Ida's cheeks were still glowing, and she was struggling to keep back her tears, when Mrs. Tregoning entered the room a few minutes later.

Wrapped in a shawl and breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Tregoning looked paler and more fragile than when Ida last saw her. The warmth of her welcome was soothing to the girl.

"My dear Ida," she said as she kissed her tenderly, "I am so sorry that I was not here to welcome you on your arrival, but I could not help it, as you know. I hope Geraldine has been entertaining you."

"I am afraid not," said that young lady, languidly; "I am not in an entertaining mood."

"I am very sorry that you have been ill," said Ida, with unfeigned sympathy in look and tone as her eyes rested on the gentle face of her mother's friend. "Does the doctor give you hope of soon being better?"

"Oh yes. He says that I am better, but he insists on my remaining indoors whilst this east wind continues. Don't look so troubled, child. I am used to suffering thus. I have never been over-strong."

"I am grieved to see you looking so far from strong," said Ida. "Would it not be better for you to sit on this side of the room? There may be a draught from the window."

"Thank you for your thoughtfulness, dear," said Mrs. Tregoning, and moving across the room she seated herself on the couch drawn up on the other side of the fireplace, and signed to Ida to take a seat beside her. "It is so good of you to come to cheer me, and so good of Mr. Nicolari to spare you to me. Why, Geraldine, you are not going yet?"

"I am afraid I must ask you to excuse me, dear Mrs. Tregoning," said Miss Seabrook, as she rose and put on her hat, marking the effect in the mirror as she did so. "I have made up my mind to attend the noon-day service at our church throughout Lent. I feel less reluctant to leave you since you will have Miss Nicolari's company."

"Oh, I wanted to have you both with me; I wished you two to know each other," said Mrs. Tregoning. "I hoped you would have stayed to luncheon, Geraldine."

"I should have been delighted," said Geraldine, "but you see I must not break my good resolution. I shall hope to become better acquainted with Miss Nicolari at some future time."

The words were courteously spoken, but to Ida's ears, they had an insincere ring. She was not sorry that the young lady was about to depart.

Miss Seabrook kissed Mrs. Tregoning and bade her good-bye with a great show of affection, graciously said "Good morning" to Ida, and suffered her to touch the tips of her delicately gloved fingers, and then, fair and graceful as some tall, slender flower, passed out of the room.

"Now we shall be quite alone, Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning. "I cannot regret it, although I wished Geraldine to stay, for I should have liked you to see more of her. She lives close by, in the Cromwell Road, and she is very good in coming to see me. What do you think of her?"

"She is very pretty," said Ida, slowly.

"Is she not? My son admires her very much, and so does almost every one. I thought her the prettiest girl I had ever seen until I saw one who is more than pretty—who is beautiful."

Mrs. Tregoning glanced at Ida, to observe the effect of her words. The girl met her gaze with open, inquiring eyes. She had evidently not the least idea that Mrs. Tregoning's words referred to herself.

"Geraldine is a good girl," continued Mrs. Tregoning, "very religious, and most regular in her attendance on the services of the Church. It was partly through her influence, I think, that Theodore was led to yield to my wish that he should study for the Church. She is a liberal giver to religious objects, and has the means of giving, since her father is a man of considerable wealth, and very indulgent to his only daughter. You may have heard of Charles Seabrook, the great banker."

Ida shook her head. She knew so little of the world that the significance of the name which Mrs. Tregoning pronounced with such satisfaction was lost upon her.

"I thought you might have heard of him," said Mrs. Tregoning. "He is a well-known man, and they move in the best society. We made the daughter's acquaintance at Oxford, where she was staying at an aunt's house. I think you would like her, Ida, if you knew more of her."

Ida's was such a truth-telling countenance that her friend had already discovered that she was not altogether pleased with Miss Seabrook.

"Perhaps I should," said Ida, slowly, "but I do not think that she would like me."

"Why, child, whatever makes you imagine that? I am sure you are mistaken. Geraldine was most interested in hearing about you, and very anxious to make your acquaintance."

"Ah, but she did not know then that I am not a Christian," said Ida.

"Oh, did you tell her so?" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, with an air of regret. "That would, of course, surprise her very much, and she would be sorry, for she is deeply religious."

"But she was unfair," said Ida; "she spoke as if my father must be bad because he does not think as she but does. That made me angry. It was wrong of me, but I felt it so, for I know my father to be one of the best of men. It ill becomes me to praise him perhaps, but I 'know' how good he is. I often think that the words that were applied to Aristides the Just are just as applicable to him—'To be, and not to seem, is this man's maxim.'"

"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Tregoning, soothingly, "no one can look upon Antonio Nicolari without feeling sure that he is upright and honourable in the highest degree. I wish he were a Christian. It grieves me to know with what feelings he regards Christianity. I hope you do not share those feelings, Ida, for you know that I am a Christian, and so is my son, and indeed all my friends."

"I cannot share my father's feelings, because I do not understand them," said Ida, simply, "but I know they are just and right, or they would not be his. You must not imagine that my father would dislike any one for being a Christian. He loves every one who is good and true, and so do I. You are good and kind, dear Mrs. Tregoning, and I love you with all my heart, whatever your religion may be."

As she spoke, Ida looked up into her friend's face with a smile so irresistibly sweet that Mrs. Tregoning felt constrained to clasp her close and kiss her.

"Thank you, dear," she said. "But, Ida, you speak as if you knew nothing of my religion. Surely that cannot be?"

"I know but little," Ida replied; "I have heard my father say that the Founder of Christianity led a stainless life, but that His followers have perverted and corrupted His teaching."

"But surely you know the history of that Life?" said Mrs. Tregoning. "You have been to church; you know the truth that is contained in the New Testament?"

"I know something about it, of course," said Ida, looking disturbed; "I have heard Marie speak of Jesus, the Son of the Virgin Mary. I know that He lived a good life, and was supposed to work miracles, and that He was crucified. Marie used to show me pictures of Him when I was a little girl. I have never been to church."

Mrs. Tregoning was startled by her words, for though Antonio had acquainted her with the fact of his daughter having been brought up in ignorance of Christianity, it was incredible to her that such could really be the girl's state of mind. She could not hide how she was affected by the revelation. She turned her head aside, but Ida could see the tears which had come into her eyes, and she heard her murmur to herself: "Oh, my poor Ida!"

There was silence for a few moments. Ida felt bewildered and uneasy. She wished they had never begun to talk about religion, yet, since so much had been said, she felt a desire to understand what Mrs. Tregoning's religious faith really was.

"Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning at last, and her voice trembled as she spoke, "has not your father told you that your mother was a Christian?"

"My mother!" faltered Ida. "Oh, Mrs. Tregoning, was she a Christian?"

"Yes, indeed, dear, a faithful, devoted Christian. Jesus Christ was to her more than a noble Example; He was her Lord and Master, her dearest Friend, loved with a deeper love than she gave her husband even, or could have given her child, had she lived to know the solemn joy of motherhood."

There was a strange play of emotion visible on Ida's face as she heard this. Wonder, bewilderment, and pain were working there, and the shadow of pain grew deeper as she pondered the surprising fact.

"How strange that I never knew this before!" she said in low, faltering tones. "I wonder that my father has not told me."

"I wonder too," said Mrs. Tregoning, and was about to say more, but she checked herself. She knew that Ida would be quick to resent any blame cast on her father.

"How strange!" continued Ida, as if thinking aloud. "I thought till lately that Christians were either bad and hypocritical, or deluded and weak. But 'she,' I have always been told, was good and wise, and her face is lovely."

"And she was just as lovely in heart and character," said Mrs. Tregoning, "though she would have disclaimed all goodness, and given Christ her Saviour the glory for what she was. Ida, her most earnest desire for her child would have been that she might know and love the Saviour who had been her mother's friend and guide, and who, by His death on the cross, redeemed her, and all who trust in Him, from the power of sin and death."

"Oh, you do not know how you pain me when you speak so!" exclaimed Ida. "I cannot understand; I am perplexed; I have had such different ideas." And with a quick childlike movement, she bowed her head on Mrs. Tregoning's shoulder, and burst into tears.

Her friend drew her close to her and kissed her many times.

"My dear," she murmured in tenderest tones, "my Ida's child! I would not willingly grieve you; I must say one word more, and then I will leave this subject. Do you really know nothing of Jesus Christ save what you have heard from your father and from Marie, who, I suppose, is a Roman Catholic? Have you never read the Bible, which your mother held so dear? You have your mother's books?"

"No," said Ida, sorrowfully, "I cannot remember that I have ever seen any books which belonged to my mother. I have seen a Bible, but I have never read it. I remember that once Marie and I, in one of our walks, were caught in a shower, and we went just inside a church for shelter, and it was the time of service, and we heard some one reading in a clear, strong voice, words which seemed to me very beautiful. I remember the words now. I could not forget them, they seemed so sweet and strange—'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Marie said that they were in the Bible. She hurried me away and would not let me stay to hear more, because she thought that father would not like our being there. They must be good words, although I do not know what they mean."

"They are good words," said Mrs. Tregoning, with emotion, "and words that have brought comfort to many, many hearts, for they are the words of Jesus."

She said no more, but sat still for a few moments, observing sadly the look of pain and wonder on Ida's downcast face. She hoped she had not needlessly grieved the child who was so dear to her. Surely he had done right in telling Ida the truth about her mother.

Presently Mrs. Tregoning roused herself, and tried to divert Ida from her sorrowful musings by showing her the portraits on the mantelshelf. There were two portraits of Mrs. Tregoning's husband, one of him as he was in the prime of his days, strong and hopeful, and the other taken but a little while before his death, showing him pale and emaciated from the insidious working of consumption, yet with a patient serenity of expression, the shining forth of an inner beauty, which Ida did not fail to perceive. Then the mother showed with pride the photographs of her boy, taken at all stages of his young life—as a bonny baby boy, as a toddling youngster, as a schoolboy bat in hand, as an undergraduate in cap and gown, and again in boating dress, an oarsman of whom his college was proud, and lastly the finely finished vignette to which Ida's attention had already been drawn.

"What do you think of him?" asked the mother, confident that the opinion must be favourable.

"I like his face," said Ida; "he looks so good."

"He 'is' good," said the mother, with a quiver of loving pride in her voice; "he has never cost me a heart-ache since he was born. I have much to be thankful for in my son."

And then she went on to tell Ida many a story of her son's boyhood and youth, all illustrative of the strength and goodness of his character. It was a theme on which the mother loved to dilate, and in Ida she found an interested listener. Mrs. Tregoning spoke much also of Ida's mother, and the girl listened eagerly as she recalled the long past days of her own girlhood, with many an incident of the friendship which had been so sweet and lasting. But ever and again the talk would drift back to Theodore and his sayings and doings.

Ida did not weary of the mother's fond words. The day was a memorable one to her, and a happy one, although it had its element of pain. It was a pleasure to talk of her mother with one who had known and loved her. She could not speak so freely to her father, for he but seldom named his lost wife, and she feared to pain him by so doing. Her talk with Mrs. Tregoning gave her a vivid conception of the mother who till now had been to her but a vague though beautiful image, regarded with loving reverence, but little understood.

### CHAPTER V.

A SORE DREAD.

IT was still early in the evening when Ida, accompanied by Marie, returned home. They drove back, for Marie and Mrs. Tregoning were both of opinion that Ida ought not to be exposed to the keen night air. On the way, Ida learned from Marie that Antonio had gone out in the afternoon, and had not returned when she left home. The news surprised Ida, for her father seldom went out unaccompanied by herself except upon business, and he had said nothing to her of any such engagement.

"Where has he gone? Do you know, Marie?" she asked.

The servant shook her head. "How should I know?" she said. "It is not for me to question the master concerning his goings and comings. I asked Fritz, but I might have spared my breath, for he never knows anything."

"Oh, well, I shall soon hear," said Ida. "Father will surely have got home by the time we are there."

"Perhaps," said Marie. "Anyhow you will find Master Wilfred."

"Oh, what is he staying so late for?" asked Ida.

"I do not know unless it be to see you," said Marie.

"That is very likely," said Ida, with a laugh, "unless, indeed, he wants to hear about my visit to Mrs. Tregoning. He is very curious, is Master Will. I wish he could have seen the young lady whose acquaintance I made this morning. So elegant, so fashionable, and exceedingly pretty, she would have been quite to his taste."

"She may have been pretty," said Marie, "but I don't think Master Wilfred would have had much admiration to spare for her. There is only one young lady he cares about."

Ida turned laughingly to her old nurse.

"Oh, you dear, foolish old Marie," she exclaimed; "you said something like that once before, and I told you how absurd it was. Wilfred is for ever experiencing new admirations, such a thoughtless, changeable boy as he is!"

"He is not a boy," said Marie; "he is a man, and of an age to think of marriage."

"Let us hope he will not think of it," said Ida, "for I should pity his wife. She need have a patient soul. To me it seems that Wilfred will never be a man; he is always vexing my father with his boyish ways."

But now the cab drew up at Nicolari's door. Ida hastened into the house. The gas was burning low in the dining-room; no one was there. She ran out into the studio. Wilfred was there, not working, for this light cast by the solitary lamp would not admit of that, sauntering but to and fro with a cigar between his lips.

Now Antonio, who did not smoke, allowed no smoking in the studio, and Ida exclaimed at once: "Oh, Will, Will! What business have you to be smoking here? Father will be certain to perceive the smell of that cigar. Come away at once, for of course you are not working."

"All in good time," said Wilfred; "I am just taking a look round. But I have been working to-day. Come and see what I have done."

"Father has not returned, I suppose," said Ida, as she followed him into the outer room. "Where has he gone? Do you know, Will?"

"Not I," returned the young man; "he did not inform me as to his movements."

"Oh, Will!" exclaimed Ida the next moment. "What an absurd creature you are!"

It was not his work he wanted her to see, but the striking change his ingenuity had effected in the appearance of the statuary. The marble image of a noble lady was seen with a clay cigar projecting from between the lips and a paper head-dress surmounting the brows, giving the whole a curious resemblance to the popular effigy of an Aunt Sarah. A renowned statesman appeared with Fritz's apron wrapped round him as a shawl and an old woman's bonnet on his head; a fool's cap covered the head of another distinguished politician; the face of a learned author looked out from a frilled night-cap, and a pretty girlish figure was rendered ridiculous by Fritz's cap jauntily stuck at the side of the head.

The general effect was so comical that Ida was obliged to laugh, but Wilfred's laugh out-rang hers and lasted long after it had ceased.

"Really, Wilfred, you are too absurd," said Ida, still laughing whilst she attempted to reprove; "it is a pity you had nothing better to do. This is a very vulgar kind of joke. Pray take those things away before father comes in." And, anxious to save her father from annoyance, she began herself to remove the ridiculous adornments.

But, vulgar or not, Wilfred enjoyed his joke. In vain Ida endeavoured to restore things to their usual order. He continued to try new effects till Ida, laughing and protesting, ran off, leaving him to his own devices.

"And this is the individual Marie calls a man!" said Ida to herself as she went upstairs.

By the time she had removed her walking-dress and descended to the dining-room, Wilfred had established himself there. He was in a more sensible mood now, and anxious to hear all Ida would tell him about her visit to Mrs. Tregoning. As they talked together, Nicolari came in. Ida sprang up joyously to meet him, and kissed him as tenderly as if they had been parted for a year instead of a day.

"Where have you been, father?" she asked. "I was quite disappointed not to find you when I came home."

"I have not been far, dear," he said quietly. "Ask me no questions now." His manner was so grave that Ida gave him an anxious interrogative glance. He was looking tired and worn, and there was something in his expression that sent a thrill of dread through Ida's loving heart, though she could not have told why.

"Sit down, father," she said, pulling forward his easy-chair, "and I will fetch you your slippers. And you will have some coffee, will you not?"

"If you please, dear," he said gently.

"I will go now," said Will, rising; "I only stayed to keep Ida company till you came."

Antonio did not ask him to stay longer.

Bidding them good-night, Wilfred quitted the house, and the sculptor and his daughter were left alone.

For some minutes Antonio did not speak, nor did Ida. He drank his coffee, then sat for awhile with closed eyes looking both tired and troubled.

"Ida," he said at last, "I have been to see Dr. Ward." Dr. Ward was the oculist, residing at the West End, whom Antonio had already consulted with regard to his eyesight.

"Oh, have you, father?" exclaimed Ida, her dread deepening. "And what did he say?"

"I told him," said Antonio, speaking with calmest deliberation, "that the treatment he prescribed had as yet effected no improvement, but that my sight seemed rather to grow worse. And I described to him the sudden loss of vision which I so frequently experience, as if a black cloud fell before my eyes, making me blind for a few moments till it lifts and I see again."

"Yes, yes," said Ida, breathlessly, "and what did he say?"

"He said he was much disappointed that his treatment had failed to benefit me, and then he proceeded to examine my eyes most thoroughly. Unhappily, he has discovered that there is serious mischief at work. Both eyes are diseased. But don't let me alarm you, Ida. There is hope that I may yet be saved from becoming blind."

"Blind!" she repeated with a shudder and all the colour fled from her cheek. "Surely there is no fear of that?"

"No, no, darling; we will not begin to fear yet," he said, warned by her tones of the effect of his words. "Dr. Ward assures me that he has known cases as bad as mine cured by an operation."

"An operation!" cried Ida, the word thrilling her with a vague terror. "Oh, will that be necessary?"

"Yes, it is my only chance," he said quietly, "but it cannot take place for some weeks yet. Meanwhile I shall hope for the best, and you must help me, Ida. We should be very foolish, should we not, if we began to mourn over a misfortune that may never befall us?"

"It may be foolish, but I cannot help it," said Ida; "the thought is so dreadful."

"The more need that we put it from us resolutely, determined that it shall not bring our spirits into bondage," said her father. "My fear cannot affect the issue, but it might exert a harmful influence on my work, and prevent my making the most of the brief time allotted to me."

"Oh, father! Surely you will not work now?" cried Ida. "Does not Dr. Ward wish you to rest your eyes?"

"He does; and I have promised to keep my hours of work within reasonable limits, and not to use artificial light. I cannot concede more."

"But would it not be better to rest altogether for a while?" asked Ida, anxiously.

"Nay, nay, child; I cannot do that," he said; "I cannot sit with my hands before me whilst my Psyche is still unfinished. I live for Art. If I knew that I had but a few days of sight left, I would give every hour of them to my art. Oh! It would be more bitter than death to be held captive by blindness whilst yet I had not attained the perfection of which I have dreamed so long. Truly does Plato say, that the body is a source of endless trouble to us, ever impeding us in our highest endeavours."

"But you have accomplished great things," said his daughter; "every one acknowledges that your work is noble and beautiful. Your name is justly honoured. Why cannot you be content?"

"'Content,' because men call me a sculptor and admire my statues?" he said, with a bitterness of tone such as Ida had seldom heard him use. "What is it to me how others regard my work? To be content is to fail. But I am not content. I am haunted by ideas of beauty which mock my efforts when I try to express them in marble. If I could only mould forms of absolute beauty! But I may do so yet, for I feel that I have not put forth the finest work of which I am capable. My life is incomplete until it be accomplished."

The shade of sadness deepened on Ida's face as she heard his words, spoken with a passion that contrasted strongly with his usual calmness of demeanour. Why was he never content? Why could he not rest in happy contemplation of his past successes? Yet she knew that these unsatisfied aspirations were a token of her father's greatness as an artist. She had often seen Wilfred regarding his work with a look of smug content, but she had never read satisfaction in her father's glance as he surveyed his model. Ida knew that it was vain to endeavour to dissuade her father from his purpose to continue his work.

He said no more as he leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed.

Ida lowered the gas, that he might be more completely at ease, then seated herself on a stool beside him and leaned her head against his knee. The firelight played on her as she sat thus, and more than once the fitful gleams showed the sparkle of tears in her large dark eyes as they watched the fire.

More than half an hour passed in unbroken silence, and then her father's voice roused Ida from her sad reverie.

"Child," he said, as he laid his hand caressingly upon her hair, "I had forgotten your visit to Mrs. Tregoning. Tell me about it. Did you have a pleasant time?"

"Yes, very," she replied, but a deep-drawn sigh with the words. "Mrs. Tregoning was so kind, I was glad to be with her. But she looks very ill, I am sorry to say."

"She was never strong, I believe," said Antonio. "I remember that your mother was always anxious about her friend's health. Yet she has lived till now, and Ida, who as a girl was more robust, passed away in early life."

"Father," said Ida, gently, "Mrs. Tregoning spoke to me much about my mother; and I was glad, for I have often, wished to know more about her."

"Yes?" he said. "And what did she tell you that you did not know before?"

"Father, she told me that my mother was a Christian."

There was a pause of a few moments ere Antonio made any reply. Then he said quietly, "It is true, Ida. Your mother was a Christian and a good woman—the best woman I have ever known."

"Father," said Ida, moved by a sudden impulse, "I wish you would let me read the Bible; I should like to know more about my mother's religion."

She was half frightened at her words as she uttered them. He did not appear surprised at the request.

"Certainly, Ida, if you desire it," he said quietly; "you are free to read whatever you like, for you are no longer a child. I have no wish to bias your opinion on any subject. You have a right to know all about your mother's religion. But, Ida, I think I have done well in keeping you from that knowledge till you arrived at years of discretion. You can now approach the study of Christianity with an unprejudiced mind, and read its history as you would any other history, without partiality and without superstition. I have tried to rear you in the natural religion in which alone I can place faith, but should you desire to embrace a dogmatic religion, your father will not attempt to hold you back."

"Thank you," said Ida, tremulously; and then she added, "Father, how shall I study Christianity? I shall want books. Have you any books which belonged to my mother?"

"I have," he answered gravely; "I have been keeping them for you. They are in the little ebony cabinet in the drawing-room. Stay a moment, and I will fetch you the key."

He rose and quitted the room, and she heard him enter the next room, which was his own sanctum. In a few minutes he returned, bringing a small key, which he placed in her hand without a word. His manner was so grave and cold that Ida was distressed.

"Father," she said, tears springing to her eyes, "you are not vexed with me for asking that I may read the Bible?"

"Vexed, child?" he replied sadly but tenderly, as he bent and kissed her on the forehead. "Why should I be? I had expected this, and I always meant to give you your mother's books some day."

Ida slipped the key into her pocket, and no more was said upon this subject.

That night, when Marie as usual waited upon her young lady to brush her hair ere she retired to rest, a duty which the faithful old nurse could not be persuaded to resign, she was struck with the change that had come over Ida's countenance. She had looked so bright on her return from Mrs. Tregoning's; a quiet, yet unmistakable gladness had shone in her face and sparkled in her eyes. The disappointment and faint anxiety caused by her father's absence had not had power to quench it. Every look and tone as she chatted with Wilfred had told that she was happy. But now the delicate face was colourless as ivory, the eyes were downcast, the head drooped wearily, and Marie, with the keen vision of love, could read but too plainly the signs of sadness.

"Why, whatever has come to you, Miss Ida?" cried Marie at last, when she found that her attempts at conversation received but monosyllabic replies. "You are not like the same creature that you were when you came in. Are you ill that you look so white?"

"No, not ill, Marie," said the girl, wearily, "but I am very tired. And I have such an aching here," she added, with a quaint childlike air, as she laid her hand upon her heart.

"And what has caused it?" asked Marie. "What has happened to make you so 'triste,' so melancholy?"

"I cannot tell you: do not ask me," replied Ida. "It is only that I have a feeling that trouble is coming to us—terrible, dark trouble. Oh! I wish I had some one to help me—to tell me if there is anything I can do."

"And yet you will not tell me!" said Marie, in rather an aggrieved tone. "I suppose I am incapable of helping you."

Ida made no reply, and Marie, touched by the deep distress she read on the young face, forgot her momentary sense of injury as she exclaimed impulsively, "Oh, Miss Ida, if you only were a Catholic, and could know the comfort of telling all your troubles to the Blessed Virgin!"

"Is it a comfort?" Ida asked. "Would she help me?"

"Yes, indeed," said Marie, fervently. "Our Lady has a woman's heart, and can understand the troubles of us poor women. Oh! There is many a thing that worries me that I could never tell to Fritz, for he would not understand, and would only fidget me with his dulness. But I can take my offering to our Blessed Lady, and kneel before her shrine and tell her all. And then I cease to worry, for I know that she will hear my prayer and help me. Maybe she would hear you too, Miss Ida, although you are not a Catholic, for she has a woman's pitying heart."

"Maybe," said Ida, with a smile, as she lifted her face to receive Marie's good-night kiss; "you must pray for me, my good Marie; your prayers might be heard, if mine are not."

"That I will," said Marie, earnestly. And she went away, leaving Ida somewhat comforted by her warm if ignorant sympathy.

### CHAPTER VI.

VISITORS TO THE STUDIO.

TOWARDS noon on the following day, Ida was alone in the drawing-room on the first floor of the old house in Cheyne Walk. This room, spacious and lofty, and furnished in the best modern-artistic style, was Ida's special domain. It had been fitted and decorated to suit her taste a year earlier, when her father became conscious that his little Ida, always quaint and precocious in her words and ways, was already in all essentials of heart and mind a woman. Everything in the room was in charming style, and the harmonious blending of colour would have gratified the most fastidious eye. Many a thing of beauty—flower and fern, plaque or statuette—revealed the girl's æsthetic instincts. There were water-colour paintings on the walls, sketches of landscapes, flowers, and fruits, several of which had been painted by Ida. These evinced the delicate perception of colour and form, and the utter truthfulness, which, whatever the art, marks the work of the true lover of nature.

The pleasantest place in the room was the bay-window, with its wide, cushioned window-seat. It commanded a good view of the Thames Embankment, and the calm, deep river flowing before the house. The window opened on to a little stone balcony, round which in their season Ida ranged her loved plants, and into which she often stepped on a summer evening that she might gain a wider view of the expanse of sky and river, or see with clearer vision the crimson and gold which curtained the sinking sun.

Whilst her father was in his studio, too intent upon his work to think of aught beside, Ida spent many an hour seated in that window, watching the steamers and barges that passed up and down the river, and observing every change of the sky, each transient atmospheric effect. Ida loved the river, cold and weird as it often looked in the dull, wintry days. It had been her delight as a child to watch, it, and it seemed to her like part of her life, for she could not remember the time when first she saw the river. She felt that she should miss the river like a friend, if she were ever obliged to leave its shore.

But Ida was not interested in the view from the window this morning. Her heart was still oppressed, though she was less under the dominion of fear than on the previous night. It had been late ere she forgot her trouble in sleep, but with the morning light new hope sprang up. It seemed impossible that that dark dread could ever be realised, and she felt that her father was right, and that it would be foolish to fret over a trouble that might never come. So she tried to put the thought from her and give her mind to other things. It was the easier for her to do so, since as yet her young life had known no actual sorrow.

Ida was standing with her back to the window, in the full glow of the bright fire which blazed in the grate, and she leaned with her elbow on the mantelshelf as she looked across the room at the little ebony cabinet, which she had been told contained her mother's books, and the key of which was now swinging on the tip of one of her fingers. This cabinet was very old, and had been in the sculptor's house long before he furnished the drawing-room for his daughter's use. Ida could not remember that she had ever seen it opened. Should she open it now? She felt half reluctant to do so. Though she had longed to know more of her mother's life, she shrank from the revelation that might await her. What would be the outcome of her resolve to study the Christian religion? She had a vague idea that the opening of that cabinet might vitally affect her life and feelings. But surely it could not cause a breach between herself and her father? Had she thought that possible, Ida would have left the cabinet for ever unopened.

Ida Nicolari had received a very different education from that usually deemed desirable for girls. She had been trained in accordance with her father's standard, with the result of making her an accomplished Greek and Latin scholar, who had studied more thoroughly than do many men the ancient classic literature. She had never been to school, and had seen little of other children except Wilfred Ormiston. Her education had been conducted by means of visiting governesses and tutors, and her father had taken pains to secure for her the services of the best that could be engaged.

Ida had reaped the full benefit of the concentration upon her of the undivided attention of such instructors. Her teachers found her a quick scholar, one who loved knowledge for its own sake, and was ready to learn as fast as they could teach her. Whilst yet quite young, she showed herself not unfit to be her father's intellectual companion, reading the books which he read, studying art, listening to his criticism of men and things, and unconsciously moulding her inner life by his. She had read few of the books which most girls love. With the plays of Shakspeare she was familiar, but the modern novel was unknown to her. She knew the history of each hero of mythology, but had only slight acquaintance with the heroes of romance. Many of the wise sayings of the old philosophers were as household words to her, and she loved the heroic verse of Homer, but she knew scarce anything of modern poets, and had never read a line of the works of a certain sage, who, only a little more than a stone's throw from her home, was grappling with the hard problems of human life, and developing the stern yet sound philosophy which was destined to powerfully influence the mind of his age.

Ida lingered for a few minutes, looking at the cabinet and then at its key, in a state of indecision foreign to her nature.

"Why not now?" she said at last, half aloud. "Why put off that which I shall certainly feel impelled to do, sooner or later?"

So saying, she swiftly crossed the room, and kneeling beside the little cabinet placed the key in the lock. The first attempt to turn it was vain. The lock was stiff and refused to move. Ida tried again and again, for she was reluctant to call Marie to her assistance, knowing that if Marie's curiosity were thus roused, she would be unwilling to withdraw without seeing the contents of the cabinet. Wrapping her handkerchief about the key that she might grasp it more firmly, Ida tried once more, and with a grating sound, the lock flew back and the door was open.

There were three shelves in the cabinet. On the lowest lay some faded sheets of music, old songs that Antonio had loved to hear his young wife sing, a broken fan, and an autographic album. Ida glanced at these reverently for a few minutes, and then turned to the shelves above, which she saw were filled with books. One by one, she took the volumes out and wiped away the dust which even in the closed cabinet had accumulated upon them in the course of many years. Wordsworth's Poems, Tennyson's "In Memoriam," Mrs. Hemans' Poems, the Poems of Charlotte Elizabeth. Her mother had been fond of poetry, apparently. But prose works too came to hand. Mason on "Self-Knowledge," Mrs. Ellis's "Women of England," with Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" and "Sense and Sensibility," and others equally well-known, though strange to Ida.

But what were these smaller books on the upper shelf? There was no mistaking one. As soon as her eyes rested on the small square volume, bound in dark morocco, Ida knew that this was her mother's Bible. Her hand trembled as she took it down. She opened it, and the pages fell apart at the close of the Old Testament, and she saw before her the words, "The New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ." This then was the book which was the basis of the Christian faith. This was the history of the Wonderful Life with which Mrs. Tregoning desired that she should become acquainted, and which her father had left her free to study. Ida glanced at the first page, but she did not read more than the opening words. She would not allow herself to read the book then; she was too excited. She would wait till a calmer hour.

She began to examine the other books. There was a gilt-rimmed, gilt-clasped copy of the Book of Common Prayer, Keble's "Christian Year," an old worn volume of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," and a hymnbook. Though these books had no religious association for Ida, they were sacred to her because they had been dear to her mother. She could not keep back her tears as she looked at them. These books must often have been in her mother's hands. Was it right that for long years they should be locked away in this cabinet and read by no one? Then quickly Ida rebuked herself for the thought. How little it became her to reflect upon her father's action in keeping her in ignorance of the Christian religion till she was old enough to understand it! He had her good in view in all he did!

Ida laid the Bible and the devotional books on a little table close by, intending to carry them presently to her own room. She was half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, with books all about her, when the sound of a carriage drawing up at the house door caught her ear. Wondering what it meant, she sprang up and went to the window, just in time to see Miss Seabrook alighting from the elegant little victoria which stood at the door.

Ida was surprised and hardly pleased. She had fancied that after the disclosure she had made of her position with regard to religion, Miss Seabrook would not desire further acquaintance with her, and would forego her intention of visiting the studio. As Ida wondered, she became aware from the sound of approaching steps that Anne was bringing her visitor, or visitors, for a second, heavier tread seemed to follow that of the lady, upstairs. She had but time to gather up the volumes scattered on the floor and place them on a side table, ere Anne opened the door and announced Mr. and Miss Seabrook.

Charmingly dressed, and looking prettier and more fascinating than ever, Geraldine Seabrook advanced with outstretched hand.

"Good morning, Miss Nicolari. I trust I have not been too precipitate in taking advantage of your kind invitation to visit Mr. Nicolari's studio. But my father was impatient to come without delay. I shall lay all the blame on him. He is, as I told you, an enthusiast for Art."

"And that I am sure will commend me to Miss Nicolari's favour," said the gentleman, suavely, as he made his most courteous bow. "She will agree with me that one cannot be too eager in the pursuit of the Beautiful."

He was a blond, well-preserved gentleman of fifty, with a fringe of sandy hair surrounding his smooth bald head, and irreproachable whiskers of the same hue. His looks denoted keen intelligence and considerable "savoir faire," but there was something in his expression which did not favourably impress Ida, and she deemed him rather commonplace, and thought that she should never have supposed him to be an ardent lover of Art.

"Certainly; it cannot but be right to seek Beauty with all one's heart," she said in reply to his words, "since the Beautiful is, or should be, synonymous with the Good."

Despite his fine manners, Mr. Seabrook could not refrain from staring with a surprised air at Ida as she spoke. Was this the girl of whom he had heard his daughter speak as little better than a Pagan or an Atheist? These were not the words of one who ignored religion. There could be no doubt that she was beautiful, and, little as he knew of her, he would have hazarded much on the supposition that she was good also.

"With such a living picture before him," he said to himself, "who would not argue that Beauty and Goodness were identical?"

"Miss Nicolari," said his daughter, "I rely on you to tell us if we have arrived at an inconvenient hour. We should be very sorry to interfere with Mr. Nicolari's work."

"I do not think my father is particularly engaged this morning," said Ida, "but, if you will excuse me, I will go and ask him."

As the door closed upon her, Mr. Seabrook began at once to study the pictures on the walls, whilst Geraldine took stock of the appointments of the room. Suddenly her glance fell on the pile of books which Ida had placed on the side table. Their appearance interested her, and she advanced to examine them. The first she took up was the "Christian Year," and beneath it she saw the "Imitation of Christ." Here was a surprise! After what Ida Nicolari had told her, she was little prepared to find such books as these in her possession. But ere she could examine further, Ida came back into the room. She saw at once by Miss Seabrook's position that she had been looking at the books, and her colour rose as she said:

"My father will be very pleased to see you in the studio. He begs me to prepare you for finding it only a rough, littered workshop."

"There is no need to apologise for the signs of work," said Miss Seabrook; "it is so good of Mr. Nicolari to let us see his beautiful things. I have been looking at your books, Miss Nicolari. I am glad to find that you read the same books as I do. These two—" she touched, as she spoke, the two uppermost—"are such dear friends of mine."

"You are mistaken," said Ida, coldly; "I have not read a line of those books. I never saw them till to-day."

"Indeed!" said Miss Seabrook, rather taken aback. "Oh, but you must read them. You do not, know how beautiful they are. You will read them, will you not?"

"Perhaps," said Ida, at once conscious of a contrary inclination. She was glad that at that moment Mr. Seabrook claimed her attention.

"I am admiring these paintings, Miss Nicolari," he said. "Some of them are very beautiful. May I ask whose work they are?"

"I painted the one at which you are now looking," said Ida. "It is only a little sketch which I made up the river one day."

"It is very good; the colour is excellent," he replied. "Are those on the opposite wall your work also?"

"Yes," said Ida.

"Then I congratulate you on your skill," he returned warmly. "You have such true feeling for colour. Do you paint much?"

"Only when I am in the mood," said Ida. "My work is very faulty; I am no artist."

"You do yourself an injustice," said Mr. Seabrook. "You have decided talent, and you ought to cultivate it."

Ida smiled and shook her head. "It would be of little use, I fear. My father says that I am too much of a woman to make an artist."

"What a reflection upon our sex!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, with a playful pretence at indignation. "If women were not capable of doing great work!"

"Father says that one here and there may be, but such cases are exceptional. He thinks that scarce any woman is capable of living for Art, and Art alone. Their womanhood is too strong for them. They would rather win love than all that Fame can bestow, and would prefer to serve in humblest fashion one dear to them, than to create some thing of beauty which should gladden and elevate posterity.—And I think that is true," the girl added with quiet decision. "But now will you come and look upon my father's work, which is infinitely superior to my poor attempts at painting?" And she led the way downstairs.

Antonio Nicolari received his visitors with the simple courtesy habitual to him, and at once began to direct their attention to such of his sculptures as he considered most worthy of notice. Mr. Seabrook, looking on all with the keen eyes of a connoisseur, saw much to admire. The Apollo, at which the sculptor had been working with his pointing tools that morning, promised to be a masterpiece of genius. Mr. Seabrook would have liked to purchase the completed work, but the Apollo, and its companion sculpture, the Psyche, were destined to adorn the mansion of a royal duke.

Whilst the sculptor and Mr. Seabrook discussed Art in the manner of the initiated, Miss Seabrook made her observations under the joint guidance of Wilfred and Ida. In the most charming way, she put questions that showed utter ignorance of the "technique" of the sculptor's art, but Wilfred was very pleased to enlighten her, and took great pains to explain every detail he thought likely to interest her. The young lady was very gracious to the sculptor's pupil, and Ida was amused to see how Wilfred was fascinated by her beauty and style. At times Ida fancied that Miss Seabrook's ignorance was in part assumed, and the pretty "naïveté" with which she put her questions not quite genuine.

As they were in the outer room, inspecting Wilfred's Clytie, on which Miss Seabrook lavished warm praise, whilst the smile of self-conscious satisfaction on the young man's face grew broader and broader, Mr. Seabrook suddenly called to his daughter—"Geraldine, come here!"

At once she turned and stepped back into the studio. "Take off your hat," said her father, as she came in sight.

"Oh, why?" she protested, with an air of remonstrance. But the next moment she uncovered her pretty head, with its crown of golden hair, and turning to her father with an arch look, stood posed with a grace that one would have said was unconscious, had not the deepening colour in her cheek testified that she was not indifferent to the effect she produced.

"There, Mr. Nicolari!" said her father, paternal pride in his tone. "Can you refuse to undertake it?"

"The work would indeed be a pleasure," said the artist, surveying with calm admiration the graceful form before him, "but I must not think of it now. I shall have as much as I can do to get my commission executed by the time I have promised it shall be done. As I have told you, I am suffering in my eyes, and cannot always command the use of them. The oculist insists upon my doing as little work as possible, and under these circumstances I should not be justified in undertaking a fresh commission."

"You are right, and I cannot press it upon you," said Mr. Seabrook. "Not for the world would we have you injure your eyesight in endeavouring to gratify our wish. Would we, Geraldine?"

A shade of disappointment came over the young lady's face. The corners of her mouth drooped ominously, and a light came into the violet eyes which if beautiful was hardly winsome. "Of course," she replied quickly, in a higher key than that to which her voice was generally attuned, "but I should have thought that the simple modelling of a bust would not have caused any great strain upon the eyesight."

"It would not to young, untried eyes," said the sculptor, regarding her with a mild, indulgent air, "but unfortunately my eyes are no longer young, and I have to guard them with jealous care, lest their light should go out ere my work is done."

The sadness of his tone went to Ida's heart, but her vexation made Miss Seabrook callous to the painful dread which the sculptor's words disclosed.

"What a pity you cannot do it!" she exclaimed. "Mamma will be so disappointed; she has set her heart on having my bust done by Mr. Nicolari."

"It is no less a disappointment to me," said Mr. Seabrook, "but we must bow to the inevitable."

"I am sorry to disappoint any one," said Nicolari, "but, as you say, it is inevitable."

"I sincerely hope that your eyesight will soon be stronger," said Mr. Seabrook. "It must be very trying to be hindered in your work by such a cause. Perhaps at some future time you will be able to do what I wish."

Antonio shook his head. "I can promise nothing; I dare not look forward," he said.

Miss Seabrook now made an effort to summon back her smiles, but the cloud did not quite melt from her brow. A few minutes later, she and her father took their departure, having stayed in the studio for the best part of an hour. Ida wondered if Miss Seabrook had forgotten her resolve to attend the mid-day service at her church throughout Lent.

"Well, Wilfred," exclaimed Ida, "when they had gone, what do you think of these visitors?"

"Oh, Miss Seabrook is a stunner," was his characteristic reply.

"A stunner! What an expression to apply to a lady!" returned Ida. "Does it denote admiration?"

"Rather," said Wilfred. "Saving your presence, Ida, I think her the loveliest creature I have ever seen. I only wish she had asked me to do her bust. I would have undertaken it with pleasure."

"I did not think of suggesting that you might do it," said Antonio. "Perhaps if you had tendered your services, they would have been accepted."

"If I had thought that, I would have offered them," said Wilfred. "It would be a treat indeed to work from such a model. And Miss Seabrook is so pleasant too, not at all proud or stuck up, though one can see that she is 'A 1.'"

"I wonder if she is always so pleasant," observed Ida, thoughtfully.

"Ida, you do not like her," exclaimed Wilfred, turning to look at her as he spoke.

There was a slight access of colour in Ida's face, as she replied slowly, after it moment's pause, "No, I must confess that I do not altogether like Miss Seabrook, though why I cannot tell. She is very pretty and very pleasant."

"I can tell you why," replied Wilfred, quickly. "You are jealous of her!"

"Jealous of her!" repeated Ida, surveying him with calm inquiry in her widely opened eyes. "What 'do' you mean? Why should I be jealous of her?"

"Oh, one pretty woman always dislikes another pretty woman," he asserted coolly; "it is their nature to."

"That is not true," said Ida. "I should never dislike a woman because she was pretty. I should rather love her on that account, as I love all beautiful objects."

"Ah, you think so, I daresay, but you do not know yourself," replied Wilfred, provokingly. "Women are always jealous of each other. But you have no need to fear Miss Seabrook's rivalry, Ida. Your style of beauty is so different from hers that you set each other off."

"I wish you would not speak so, Will!" exclaimed Ida, more moved than she often was by his foolish words. "You do not in the least understand my feelings, nor do you understand women in general, of that I am sure."

So saying she quitted the studio, whilst Antonio took up his tools and resumed his loved work, ruefully regretting the precious daylight which had been lost whilst his visitors lingered.

### CHAPTER VII.

IDA BEGINS TO KNOW HERSELF.

GERALDINE SEABROOK'S well-meant commendation had failed to make Ida desirous of reading Thomas à Kempis or the "Christian Year." On the contrary, the books were less attractive since that young lady had spoken in their favour. Ida had no wish to share Miss Seabrook's religious sentiments, and after she had gone away, the books were hastily restored to the cabinet and the door locked once more.

But on the following morning, she reopened the cabinet, and leaving the books recommended by Miss Seabrook, gave her attention to those on the second shelf. After some hesitation, she decided to read the poems of Wordsworth, and taking her favourite seat in the window, was soon lost in the perusal of this, to her, new poet. She had lighted upon the poem which bears the name of Tintern Abbey, and as she read, her heart began to beat more quickly and her pulses were thrilled by a new joy. For here was a mind that responded to her own, here was one who had felt as she had felt; the thoughts he uttered were "her" thoughts, only clothed in a beauty of expression which she could never have given them.

"Ida!" called Antonio, at the foot of the stairs, but for once Ida was deaf to her father's voice.

She started as from a dream when, quickly crossing the room to where she sat, he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Child, I want you to come and stand for my Psyche. Why, what book is this that you are so lost in? I declare you have been crying over it!"

"No, not crying," said Ida, though her wet eyelashes seemed to contradict the assertion. "Oh, father! This book is so lovely! Why did I never see it before? Here is just what I have so often felt. Listen to this:—

"And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things."

Ida paused and looked up in her father's face to see the effect of her reading. He gave a slow, sad smile as he met her glance. "So this is your first introduction to William Wordsworth. He will suit your dreamy nature, my child."

"But, father, this is really beautiful," she replied, with rather a disappointed air; "you must think it so?"

"Yes, it is beautiful," he said; "and maybe it is true. You have felt this, you say?"

"Oh yes, father. Often as I have gazed on the lovely sunsets, or watched my flowers unfolding their beauties from day to day, I have felt that there must be a God—One who is all beauty, all goodness, all love."

"And I have felt so too—at times," he said, "but the vision faded, the hope died."

"You have felt it!" exclaimed Ida, joyously. "Then it must be true. It is too beautiful not to be true. But, father, I thought—I feared—that you did not believe in God."

"What has made you judge me an Atheist?" he asked. "I am hardly that, nor quite an Agnostic, perhaps. Yet am I surely one who knows not. Some times I have dreamed of a Divine Father of men, who yearns over us in love, but, alas! the boundless evils and miseries of our poor human life seem to mock the idea of a God of love. Who can tell us the truth?"

"Christians think that they know God," said Ida. "Mrs. Tregoning seems certain of the existence of a God of love."

"Christians!" exclaimed Antonio, so fiercely that Ida was startled. "Christians may say that they know God, but in deeds they deny Him. Ida, do you know that it is to a Christian you owe the greatest loss of your life? But for the cruelty, the selfishness of her Christian father, your mother would now be living, I verily believe."

The joy died out of Ida's face, and she looked at him with startled, inquiring eyes. Antonio did not explain his words.

"Come, child," he said almost impatiently the next minute, "I must get to my work. I live for Art. Art for Art's sake that is my religion, and it is a good one, I think."

Ida hastened to don her Greek dress. In a few minutes, she joined her father in the studio, and took her stand before him, posed as Psyche. It was a pose that suited her admirably. Lovely she looked as she stood with her beautiful bare arms extended, and her dark eyes upraised as if in wondering adoration. She was paler than usual, but her paleness only lent the more ethereal grace to her beauty. Her father's words had saddened her, but she was still under the influence of Wordsworth's verse. The lines were repeating themselves within her, and their thought shone forth in her face, giving it a solemn, rapt expression, which did not fall far short, perhaps, of the expression one might imagine would illumine the countenance of a being of purest spirit, freed from the grosser elements of humanity. Antonio saw it with delight, and eagerly sought to produce it in his clay.

For some minutes neither of them spoke, whilst the sculptor worked with all the speed he could. So absorbed was he in his work, that the sound of steps in the passage leading to the studio failed to convey any intelligence to his brain.

But Ida heard it with dismay. She had forgotten to warn Anne not to show visitors into the studio whilst she was acting as her father's model. Anne, a girl of slow mind, was often confused by the various directions she received as to who should or should not be ushered into the studio, and with excellent intentions committed many blunders. To-day she was so left to herself that she now electrified Ida by opening the door of the studio and announcing visitors in tones that were unintelligible.

As she caught sight of Mrs. Tregoning, Ida experienced a sense of relief.

"Oh, I am glad it is you," she exclaimed, with a smile, as she hastened forward to welcome her friend; "I was terrified when I found that Anne was bringing us a visitor, for, you see, I am Psyche."

Ida's playful speech was arrested, however, and the deep blush which suffused face and neck showed her no goddess, but a veritable woman, as, following Mrs. Tregoning, appeared a gentleman, and in the pleasant face and dark eyes bent on her with an amazed yet admiring glance, she recognised the features of Mrs. Tregoning's son.

"Why, Ida, how charming you look! What a becoming dress!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. "Now don't be alarmed, dear; this is only my son. Theodore, let me introduce you to Miss Nicolari, now appearing as Psyche."

The young man bowed smilingly, and then turned aside to look at the sculptor's work. Ida, as she wrapped her shawl about her, felt grateful for the kindness which evidently desired to spare her embarrassment, but was more vexed with Anne for her stupidity than ever she had been before.

"My son took me by surprise only an hour after you left me the other evening," said Mrs. Tregoning. "His examination was over, so he thought that, as I was ill, he would come to me at once. Was it not good of him?"

"Not at all good, excuse me," exclaimed Theodore Tregoning, ere Ida could speak. "I came to please myself. But, mother, I am afraid this visit is ill-timed. Mr. Nicolari, you are not thanking us for interrupting your work."

"I confess I am anxious to get on with it," said Nicolari, "but I can spare a few minutes. You must pardon me if I seem ungracious."

"There is nothing to pardon; we must apologise for disturbing you thus," said Mrs. Tregoning, not unobservant of the stress he put on the word "few." "I have something I wish to say to you, but perhaps at some other time—"

"Mother," said her son, quickly, "what you wish to say to Mr. Nicolari need not take more than a few minutes."

"I am quite at your service for that time," said Antonio, courteously; "pray do not hesitate to say what you will."

Whilst this was passing, Ida was quietly observing Theodore Tregoning. His portrait had not flattered him. He was a good-looking fellow, rather above the middle height, with the strongly-knit, well-developed frame of one who delighted in almost every athletic sport. The warm brownness of his complexion, the dark eyes, with their frank, kindly gaze, yet with a suggestion of latent fire ready to flash forth upon provocation, the winning brightness of his smile, all impressed Ida with the feeling that this was one of the pleasantest faces she had ever seen. There was nothing in the least clerical in his appearance, and Ida, who shared her father's prejudice against clergy, liked him the better on this account. She wondered, however, to see the quick, impatient frown that came to his brow when his mother began to speak in nervous, hesitating tones.

"I wished to speak to you on behalf of our friend, Geraldine Seabrook. Poor girl! She is so disappointed that you cannot undertake her bust; she had set her heart on her mother's having it. She came to me in such trouble yesterday, and I promised—rather indiscreetly, I fear, but I trust you will pardon me if my interference seems unwarrantable—I promised to ask you if it is really quite impossible for you to gratify her wish."

Antonio looked at his visitor in surprise, which was reflected on Ida's countenance with the addition of some indignation.

"You are quite at liberty to say anything you like about it," said the sculptor, "but I thought I had made it quite clear to Miss Seabrook that I could not comply with the request. I was very sorry to disappoint her, and I am the more sorry since she is your friend. I would do much to oblige a friend of yours, Mrs. Tregoning."

"Thank you. Geraldine is indeed a dear friend," said Mrs. Tregoning, in unsteady tones, whilst her eyes anxiously sought her son's, and she seemed uneasy beneath his earnest, impatient glance.

"Of course Miss Seabrook explained to you why I felt obliged to decline," said Antonio.

"I understood her to say that you thought you had already too much work in hand," said Mrs. Tregoning.

"Yes, too much for these poor eyes," said the sculptor, sadly; "it was the fear of doing them further injury that withheld me from undertaking her bust, as I explained to Miss Seabrook."

"I think Miss Seabrook cannot have understood you," said Theodore Tregoning. "She did not tell us of such a reason, and I am sure she would not wish that you should run any risk of injuring your eyesight on her account."

"No, indeed! Geraldine is all tenderness and sympathy," said Mrs. Tregoning. "I will explain to her how it is, and then I am sure that she will acquiesce in your decision."

"Stay a moment," said the sculptor; "I am thinking whether it is really out of my power to serve her in this matter."

"Oh, father!" broke in Ida, impulsively. "You must not think of it. You are doing too much as it is." As she spoke, Ida became aware that Theodore Tregoning had turned his eyes on her. He had little notion of concealing his feelings, and his expressive countenance reflected each emotion of his mind. Ida read annoyance in his glance ere, recollecting himself, he turned away to hide his discontent. She was conscious of sudden, keen discomfort; she wished her words unsaid; she wished that Mrs. Tregoning and her son had not come, and she wished that they might soon go away.

"Wait, dear," said her father, gently; "I am not about to commit any imprudence, I was thinking whether Miss Seabrook's end might not be attained in another way. Would she be satisfied, think you, if my pupil undertook the bust, working under my supervision? Wilfred Ormiston has already done some very good work; he will be a famous sculptor some day, I believe. I should not be afraid to trust him to execute the bust, and I could give it a few touches if necessary."

"I should think Geraldine would willingly agree to that arrangement," said Mrs. Tregoning. "What do you think, Theo?" she added, glancing anxiously at her son.

His face had brightened wonderfully. It was plain that the sculptor's proposal pleased him.

"We will tell her of Mr. Nicolari's suggestion, and leave her to consider it," he said. "She will doubtless acquaint you, Mr. Nicolari, with her decision in a day or two. And now we shall best show our gratitude for your kind consideration of the matter by withdrawing, and leaving you free to continue your work."

The sculptor bowed his thanks, and did not invite his visitors to remain longer. Mrs. Tregoning kissed Ida, and her son stepped forward, as though he expected to shake hands with the sculptor's daughter, but Ids favoured him only with a rather stately bow.

Wilfred was not in the studio when these visitors came, and Ida wondered what he would say when he heard what her father had undertaken for him. But she made no remark on the subject when Mrs. Tregoning and her son had gone.

Without a word she posed herself again as Psyche, and her father resumed his work. He was glad that he had caught the "spirituelle" beauty of her expression ere the visitors came. For now her look had changed. She was not the same Pysche. The flower-like elasticity of her bearing and the serenity of her glance had vanished. After a while Antonio dismissed her, and Ida hastened to carry her grievance to her old nurse.

"Was there ever anything like Anne's stupidity?" she said, not angrily, but in the quiet, plaintive manner peculiar to her when troubled. "She brought Mrs. Tregoning and her son into the studio when I was standing for the Psyche. I was so vexed that they saw me in my Greek dress."

"And why?" asked Marie. "Is it not becoming?"

"Oh, I daresay," said Ida. "But I do not like that people should see me dressed so. It vexes me."

"I would never let that trouble me," returned Marie. "What did you think of the gentleman, Miss Ida?"

"He is pleasant-looking," was all Ida said; and her tone did not encourage Marie to pursue her questioning.

She looked askance at her young lady, wondering why she was so uncommunicative.

When she had changed her dress, Ida went to the drawing-room and took her favourite seat in the window. There was little that was cheering to be seen from it. A mist was gathering over the river, and the water looked grey and dreary as it moved on with sluggish flow. And Ida wondered at the dull grey mood that had crept over her. How had she lost the gladness that had come to her as she read Wordsworth's poem? What had clouded her spirit, and why did the image of Geraldine Seabrook, fair, graceful, "smiling," ever rise before her and fill her with a strange sense of repulsion?

"She is charming," Ida said to herself, "but she is not good, she is not true; I feel that she is not. She kept back from Mrs. Tregoning the true reason of my father's refusal to do her bust, though she must have remembered it. She has no heart; she would not care if my father did injure his eyes, as long as she had her wish. Oh, I do not like her; I hope she will not come here again; I hope Wilfred will not do her bust."

Suddenly a flush of shame suffused Ida's countenance. What feelings were these that she was cherishing? How wrong, how unjust they were! She was ashamed of the weakness they revealed. Could it be that she was jealous of Geraldine Seabrook, as Wilfred had suggested? Yet why? What could it matter to her that Mrs. Tregoning and her son thought highly of Miss Seabrook, even though she was not so good and noble as they supposed her? Ida started up, impatient with herself, and began to move restlessly about the room. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she paused and looked at it with deliberation. She had known that she was beautiful, yet now her beauty struck her with surprise. The pale, oval face with its delicately chiselled features, the dark eyes full of sadness, seemed to look at her with reproach. So fair outwardly, but what within? Alas, she lacked the beauty of the mind that her Plato had taught her was more honourable than the beauty of the outward form, or such unjustifiable dislike of another would not have sprung up in her heart. A feeling of deep dissatisfaction with herself awoke in Ida's mind. How could she drive these evil thoughts away? To escape from them, she took up Wordsworth again, but his poetry had lost its interest for her.

She turned to the cabinet once more, and something prompted her to take her mother's Bible into her hands. She looked at it and hesitated for a few moments, then seating herself with an air of decision, she began to read the New Testament. She meant to make herself acquainted with the history of Jesus Christ, and there was no time like the present.

The story of the Saviour's birth was not new to Ida. She had heard of it in her childhood from Marie, but there was a vast difference between listening to Marie's account and reading the story for herself. She was deeply interested as she read it, though she judged it as mythical as any marvellous legend of the Homeric heroes. Then suddenly one sentence seemed to flash forth from the page with strange and startling significance:—"'Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He shall save His people from their sins.'"

What did it mean? To Ida's mind, untinged by dogmatic teaching, it was impossible that these words could suggest salvation from the consequences of sin. She knew what was meant by sin. Every failure to do well, every deflection from the perfect holiness which should be the aim of man, was a sin. And from such sins this Jesus was to save His people. But could He, had He done so? When and how? The time must be past to which those words referred, for, if her father were right, Christians were not better but worse than other people. Had he not said that it was to a Christian, her mother's father, yet a cruel, selfish man, that she owed the greatest loss of her life? And Geraldine Seabrook—But here Ida checked herself. She would not judge this girl.

She remembered that her mother had believed in Jesus Christ, and she had been pure and noble as a woman could be. Ida's clear sense of justice told her that it could not be right to judge the Founder of Christianity by His unworthy followers. And so she read on, that she might learn for herself the value of His teachings and His life. Soon she was reading the Sermon on the Mount, and as she lingered over its precepts and pondered them she felt as if life were changing for her. A new and wondrous light was thrown on the possibilities of human goodness. Here were golden maxims with which she was familiar, though she had not known that they were drawn from the Bible. Now, as she saw them in their setting, their beauty and wisdom shone forth more vividly, and there rose before her mind a vision of truth and beauty and purity in human life of which she had never dreamed. If she did not avow it to herself, her heart testified that here was a teacher greater than all the old philosophers. Many a word lingered in her memory and spoke to her after she had ceased to read.

"'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.'"

These words seemed to have a special message for Ida. They told her that it was by purity that the "wings of the spirit" might be quickened to soar upwards towards the Great and Holy Spirit, of whose presence and power she had often been conscious as she gazed on the majesty of the starlit sky, or when her heart was thrilled by the tender beauty of an autumn sunset. But how was this purity to be attained? Ah, here was a question to which there seemed no answer. Plato had taught her that the life of man should be a constant pursuit of absolute Beauty, but he had said, too, that such beauty was not of this world, and his words had failed to show her how she might shake off the "clogging pollutions of mortality" and daily draw nearer to the "idea of Beauty which exists in the Divine Mind." Ida this day was conscious of a deeper longing after that Spiritual Beauty than she had ever before felt, but with it there was a heavy sense of its hopelessness.

### CHAPTER VIII.

A VISIT FROM THEODORE TREGONING.

MISS SEABROOK graciously consented to the sculptor's proposal, and it was arranged that his pupil should undertake her bust. Wilfred was not a little elated at his commission, and anticipated with pleasure its execution. Owing to Miss Seabrook's numerous engagements, the first sitting did not take place till more than a week after the visit of the Tregonings. Ida had not seen Mrs. Tregoning since. She had kept away from her, feeling that whilst her son was with her, Mrs. Tregoning would need no other companion.

Ida had so far conquered her dislike to Miss Seabrook that she could receive her cordially when she came to sit for Wilfred. The warmth of Geraldine Seabrook's greeting, however, was more than she was prepared for. "I am so glad to see you once more, Miss Nicolari. You will be in the studio, will you not, whilst I am there? I shall not mind how many sittings are necessary, for I want to see more of you. I wish we could be friends."

Ida, considerably astonished and by no means ready to vow friendship at a moment's notice, could only murmur that Miss Seabrook was very kind.

"I have just come from the morning service at St. Angela's," said Geraldine, as she laid down an elegant little Russian leather case containing her books of devotion. "The service was grand to-day. I wish you had been there. Would you go with me some morning if I called for you?"

"Thank you, I would rather not," said Ida; "I never go to church."

"Oh, you do not know how it grieves me to hear you say so. But you will go some day, of that I feel sure, as I was telling—" Miss Seabrook broke off abruptly, and became absorbed in studying the effect of her coiffure as seen in the mirror before which she was standing.

Ida's colour rose. It was not pleasant to learn that Miss Seabrook had been discussing with another the probability of her religious views undergoing change.

"You know that Mr. Tregoning is going to be one of the curates at St. Angela's?" said Miss Seabrook, a few moments later.

"No, I did not know it," replied Ida.

"Oh, I thought Mrs. Tregoning would be sure to have told you. She is very pleased, because her son will now live with her at Kensington. Papa spoke to the rector about it. It will be a good beginning for Mr. Tregoning, and one of his friends is sure to find him a living before long."

"Indeed," said Ida, in rather a constrained manner.

"Yes! Oh, by the bye, Mr. Tregoning told me that he had been here, and had seen you. What do you think of him?"

"I do not know that I thought much about him," said Ida, with an air of proud indifference. But the next moment she was conscious that the words were untrue, for she had had many thoughts of Theodore Tregoning since his visit. Ida had always hated untruth. With a flush of shame she tried to atone for her former words by saying, "I remember that I thought him very pleasant."

"Do you not think him good-looking?" asked Miss Seabrook, with some eagerness.

"Yes, he is good-looking," said Ida, quietly.

"He was interested in you, if you were not in him," said Geraldine. "If I were to repeat what he said—" She concluded her sentence by a playful glance at Ida.

But Ida, annoyed by the bad taste of this remark, coloured more deeply than before, and, without vouchsafing any reply to it, inquired if Miss Seabrook's preparations were completed, and then led the way to the studio.

There was not much accomplished at that first sitting. Miss Seabrook did not prove a patient sitter. She so often moved at a critical moment, or began to talk just when Wilfred desired her face to be in repose that he had hardly made a satisfactory commencement of his work ere the young lady declared that she must go. When she had departed, after a rather prolonged leave-taking, Ida discovered that Miss Seabrook had left behind her the little case containing her church books.

"I hope she will remember where she left them," thought Ida, as she laid them carefully aside. She did not know the number of Mr. Seabrook's house in the Cromwell Road, and therefore could not send the books to their owner.

Later in the day, Ida was seated in the dining-room at her crewel-work. She was much interested in the group of daffodils which she was working from a design of her own, for the work, when finished, was to be given to Mrs. Tregoning. Ida had set her heart on doing what she could to brighten her friend's somewhat shabby drawing-room at Kensington. Tea-things were arranged on a little table beside Ida, and the brass kettle was singing on the hob. She was awaiting her father's coming to receive the cup of afternoon tea which she prided herself on making as good as possible.

Whilst he lingered, she grew uneasy. It was such a pity that he should remain at his work when the daylight was not at its best. Her father's eyesight was no better, and sometimes the fear smote her that it was getting worse, and that the temporary clouding of his vision came at more frequent intervals. Antonio had made up his mind to undergo an operation, but as it would necessitate a period of inaction, he refused to submit to it until his loved Psyche was completed. And the completion of the work still seemed remote, for, hindered by his failing eyesight, the sculptor could not bring his model to the excellence he desired. But the more he was baffled by his weakness, the more determined was he to achieve success, and as Ida with growing anxiety watched him modelling and remodelling, she began to think that this statue, in which at its commencement she had taken delight, would soon come to be a memorial of pain.

Ida was roused from her uneasy musings by the arrival of Theodore Tregoning. Her glance as he entered told him how surprised she was to see him, and he hastened to explain what had brought him.

"I must apologise for calling at this hour, Miss Nicolari, but I have come on behalf of Miss Seabrook. She thinks that she left her Prayer-book here this morning."

"She did; the books are here in their case," said Ida. "I have been wondering how I could convey them to her. But there is no need to apologise for your coming, Mr. Tregoning. My father will be very pleased to see you. I expect him here every moment. You will take a cup of tea with us?"

Theodore Tregoning accepted this invitation. He was not wont to be shy with ladies, but had he been afflicted with bashfulness, the frank simplicity of the sculptor's daughter must have set him at ease. There was no blushing self-consciousness or fluttering affectation in her manner, such as some young ladies have betrayed at his approach. As a handsome young curate, he was nothing to her, but as Mrs. Tregoning's son, she had a kind welcome for him.

"How is Mrs. Tregoning?" she asked. "I have been wishing to see her, but I did not come because I thought she would not care for visitors whilst you were with her."

"My mother is much better, thank you. I am sorry to learn that my presence has deprived her of the pleasure of seeing you. She is doubtless foolishly fond of me, but I have been with her for a fortnight now, so have ceased to be a novelty. What is more, I am likely to remain with her, so pray, Miss Nicolari, do not let me keep you longer from visiting her."

"I heard from Miss Seabrook that you were going to reside at Kensington," said Ida.

"Ah!" he exclaimed eagerly, the warm colour in his cheek deepening as he spoke. "She told you that I have accepted a curacy at St. Angela's?"

"Yes, she told me," said Ida, quietly.

He waited, as though expecting her to say more, but Ida apparently had no remark to offer.

"Miss Seabrook came here to-day to sit for her bust," he said, after a minute; "how did the sitting go off? Do you think the work will be a success?"

"It is impossible to judge at present," said Ida, with a smile; "Mr. Ormiston could make but the merest commencement."

"Mr. Ormiston?" he repeated. "He is your father's pupil, I presume."

Ida made a sign of assent.

"Is he very clever?" asked the young man.

"He has good abilities," said Ida; "he can do well when he takes the trouble."

"He is a young man, I suppose? But of course he would be, since he is a pupil."

"He is twenty-two," said Ida.

Theodore Tregoning looked as if he would have liked to ask more questions concerning Wilfred Ormiston, but perhaps he found a difficulty in framing them, for a pause ensued.

"She is very pretty, is she not?" was his next remark.

"Who?" asked Ida, rather unnecessarily as he thought.

"Miss Seabrook," he replied.

"Yes, she is very pretty," said Ida, cordially.

"You like her?" he asked.

Ida had a momentary sense of embarrassment ere she replied to the question by saying quietly, "She is very charming."

"She is—charming is the very word," he said warmly; "of course every one must like her. And so she told you that I am to be curate at St. Angela's. What did she say about it?"

Ida could hardly help smiling at the boyish eagerness with which he put his questions. He seemed to have no notion of concealing the warm interest he took in Geraldine Seabrook. And yet there was no lack of manly strength visible in his frank, pleasant face.

"I hardly know what Miss Seabrook said about it," Ida replied, "but she seemed very pleased."

"Yes, she is pleased, I know," he said, with a brighter glance.

"And are you pleased?" asked Ida.

His countenance fell suddenly at the unexpected question.

"I hardly know," he said; "to tell you the truth, I have grave doubts of my aptitude for the work of a clergyman. It is not the work I should have chosen, if I had been left free to choose as I would. But my mother's wishes and—the words of another, have persuaded me to give myself to this profession."

"Then I am sorry that you are going to be a clergyman," said Ida, gravely.

"Why so?" he asked, not a little surprised that she should so calmly express this feeling.

"Because it cannot be well for any man to adopt a calling for which he has no taste, no sense of fitness. And, to tell you the truth, I do not like clergymen."

"No?" he said. "What makes you dislike them?"

"I can hardly tell you. Perhaps I am prejudiced against them, but I have an idea that they are often insincere, and at best are but a feeble class of men, of little real use to the community at large."

"You are mistaken," he said earnestly; "there are feeble specimens, no doubt, but I believe there are as noble, brave, and manly fellows to be found in the ranks of the clergy as any that are enrolled in the Army or Navy List."

"I am glad to hear you say so," she said. "I have really no right to speak on the subject, for till lately I knew almost nothing of the Christian religion."

There was a pause, during which Theodore Tregoning observed Ida Nicolari with new interest as she sat gazing thoughtfully into the fire. He saw that she was very beautiful, but it was not of her beauty he was thinking. He was wondering, half guessing, what her inner life might be. Her calm, sweet, somewhat sad expression surely revealed a pure and gentle spirit. How simple and frank of speech she was! How calmly she had stated her position with regard to the Christian religion! He had known it before. He had heard his mother speak with regret of the religious ignorance in which Ida had been brought up, and he knew that Geraldine Seabrook had set her heart upon converting Ida to a belief in the Christian faith. Indeed, Miss Seabrook had made an appeal to him to advise and assist her in her efforts to attain this result—an appeal which had overwhelmed him with a distressing sense of his inability to advise her. He need not have regretted it, since the young lady would probably not have acted on his advice, had he given her any.

Never had Theodore Tregoning felt more convinced of his incapacity for the duties of a spiritual director than he did at this moment. Was it his duty to enter upon a discussion of the truth of Christianity with this fair unbeliever? What would Geraldine wish him to do? Would it be of any good to speak?

Whilst he held this debate with himself, Ida turned her eyes on him as if wondering at his silence, and hurriedly he said:

"You say that until lately you knew little of the Christian religion. Do you then know more of it than you did?"

"Yes," she said readily; "I am reading the New Testament, and you cannot think what a strange, what a wonderful history, it seems to me."

"I can well believe that; had you not read it before?"

"No, it is all new to me. My father wished me to know nothing of Christianity till I was old enough to judge of it for myself."

"And how do you judge of it?" he ventured to ask.

"Oh, I cannot tell you," she answered. "It is not at all what I expected. It seems so beautiful. I love to read that book, and yet I have cried over it more than I ever did over a book before. I do not know what to make of the miracles, but, leaving them out of account, what a grand marvellous life it was that Jesus Christ led! And then, His Death! It makes my heart ache to think of it. Betrayed by one of His own disciples, denied by another, and forsaken by them all, led forth to suffering alone amongst fierce and hateful foes, fainting beneath His heavy cross, and yet calm and steadfast through all, thinking of others to the last, caring for His Mother, forgiving even the cruel soldiers, uttering no bitter word whilst He hung on the cross in utter loneliness, tortured, bleeding, athirst—oh, I never read anything like it! I have often shed tears over Plato's account of the death of Socrates, but what was Socrates compared to this Man?"

She spoke in tones that vibrated with emotion, and there were tears in her eyes as she raised them to Theodore Tregoning's. She seemed to look for a response from him, and after a moment's pause he said, rather timidly, "Do you not feel that He was more than Man?"

"Yes, I have felt that," she confessed, "but I do not know what to think. I can hardly believe that He was Son of God in any other sense than that in which all good men are. And yet, if it were so, the miracles would present no difficulty. Oh, I am so perplexed. Do help me. You are going to be a clergyman; you know all about the Christian religion."

The colour flew into Theodore Tregoning's nice. A look of trouble clouded it. Then, as Ida continued to look at him with childlike, appealing eyes, he said nervously: "I am afraid I do not know all I should. I ought not to be a clergyman, you see. I am ill-fitted to help any one, but, but—"

"You do believe in Jesus Christ?" said Ida, regarding him earnestly. "You believe that He was the Son of God?"

"I am sure of it," was the low, fervent answer. "I believe in Him with all my heart. I live by faith in Him as my Saviour, who 'loved me and gave Himself for me.'" There was no mistaking these accents of firm conviction.

"I am so glad!" Ida exclaimed impulsively. "Then you will help me, will you not? You will tell me why you believe?"

"If I can help you, I will," he said slowly.

"Thank you, thank you," she replied; and she held out her hand to him, as if to seal the compact.

A solemn, earnest look that gave quite new beauty to it came over Tregoning's face, as for a moment he clasped the little hand in his. He knew that he was pledging himself to meet high demands, and he felt unworthy to guide and teach this gentle girl, but as far as it was in his power to throw any light upon her search for truth, he meant faithfully to keep his promise. It struck him as strange that when he had shrunk from attempting, even at second-hand, to influence Miss Nicolari's religious feelings, she should herself elect him to be her spiritual helper.

No more was said on the subject now, for Antonio came into the room, and after exchanging a few words with him, Theodore Tregoning went away.

### CHAPTER IX.

TREGONING'S "HOBBY."

"AT last!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning, as Ida entered her drawing-room one morning a few days later. "I thought you were never coming to see me again."

"Oh, you did not really think that," protested Ida, "and you have not needed my company, since Mr. Tregoning has been with you."

"Ah, Theo told me that he was the cause of your absenting yourself, but you need not have feared disturbing our tête-à-têtes. We have been more often three than two of late, for Geraldine Seabrook has not let my son frighten her away."

"Nor have I been frightened by him," said Ida, smiling, "though I am glad that I have come when you are alone."

"Yes, I am left to myself," said Mrs. Tregoning, with a little sigh. "Theodore has gone to St. Angela's with Geraldine to arrange about the floral decorations for Easter. She has persuaded her father to meet the expense, and she is determined that the church shall look lovely. Dear Geraldine is so good and devoted. It is beautiful to see her enthusiasm."

"Talking of flowers, what beauties you have," said Ida, as she glanced at the exquisite hot-house blooms that adorned the room.

"Are they not lovely?" returned Mrs. Tregoning. "I owe them to Geraldine. She will bring me flowers, although I fear Mrs. Seabrook's conservatory must suffer. It is of no use trying to check her. She is so generous."

"It must be very pleasant to be able to give such flowers to one's friends," said Ida.

"No one finds more joy in giving pleasure to others than Geraldine," remarked Mrs. Tregoning. "She is a true friend. Sometimes I wonder whether she will ever be more than a friend to me. I cannot help seeing how charmingly she and Theo get on together."

"You mean that they may be married some day?" said Ida.

"Well, yes, that is my hope. I tell it to you in confidence, Ida. Perhaps it is foolish of me to cherish it, for from a worldly point of view it would be a poor match for Geraldine Seabrook. Her father might well object to it, but I don't think Geraldine sets much value on wealth and position. She is not in the least worldly-minded."

Ida was silent. There was something incongruous to her in the thought of Geraldine Seabrook becoming the wife of Theodore Tregoning. She knew but little of either, yet she had a conviction that in goodness of heart and sterling worth of character, Geraldine was no match for Mrs. Tregoning's son.

"And you like to think of it? You would be glad if it came to pass?" she asked, after a pause.

"Yes," said Mrs. Tregoning, though a sigh escaped her as she spoke, "I do wish it, though I must confess that I sometimes feel a little jealous when I see how much Theodore thinks of her. But it is only what mothers have to expect; they cannot be to their sons what their sons are to them. And it would be a most advantageous union for Theodore. Geraldine is a dear girl. Do you not think that she would make an excellent wife for a clergyman?"

"I cannot tell," said Ida, looking grave. "You forget how little I know of Miss Seabrook, and that as I am quite unacquainted with clergymen, I can have no notion of what a clergyman's wife should be."

"To be sure, I forgot that," said Mrs. Tregoning, simply, "and of course you cannot feel the interest in Theo's marriage that I do. There is time enough for me to think of it, since he cannot possibly marry for some years to come. But, child, you are looking paler and not so bright as when I last saw you. What have you been about since then?"

There was no resisting the motherly kindness of Mrs. Tregoning's glance and tone. Ida was conscious of feeling weary, and less happy than when she started from home. She tried to smile at her friend, but to her vexation tears came instead, as she assured Mrs. Tregoning that she was quite well. "I am only a little tired," she said; "I have had to be in the studio a good deal this week."

"And how is the Psyche progressing?" asked Mrs. Tregoning.

"It is finished," said Ida; "that is to say, the clay model, which is the most important part of the work, has received the last touch. Fritz is now at work upon the marble."

"What do you think of it?" asked Mrs. Tregoning.

"It is very good," said Ida, without hesitation. "My father is not satisfied, but then he never is. Fritz declares that it will be the most beautiful thing father has ever done."

"It can hardly be more beautiful than a sculpture of your father's which I saw many years ago," said Mrs. Tregoning. "It was a bas-relief of the Good Shepherd which he did for St. Cuthbert's Church at Westminster. You know it, of course?"

"No, I do not," said Ida, looking puzzled. "Of the Good Shepherd, did you say?"

"Yes, it represented our Saviour as the Good Shepherd. The subject has occupied many a sculptor, but there was something quite uncommon in your father's treatment of it. I can never forget the grace and beauty of the figure, though it is long since I looked upon it."

"Are you not thinking of some one else's work?" said Ida, looking incredulous. "Surely my father would never—"

"Ah! Ida, but this was long ago, before you were born, and when your father was not so prejudiced against Christianity. Your mother loved the work, and she it was who showed it to me. Strange, I had forgotten all about it till just now, and now I can see it so vividly. And you have never seen it?"

"I never knew till now that my father had done such a sculpture," said Ida, her face still expressive of the utmost astonishment. "There is nothing like it in the studio. Oh, I wish I could see it! Is it still in that church, do you suppose?"

"I cannot tell, but I should think it would be," said Mrs. Tregoning; "I should much like to see it again. We must go in search of it together some day, Ida."

"Thank you," said the girl, quietly. And then she sat in silence for some minutes, musing over the surprising fact she had learned with a sorrowful look on her young face.

"How is your father's sight?" Mrs. Tregoning asked presently. "I suppose he is resting his eyes now?"

"Yes, he is using them as little as possible," said Ida, "and you cannot think what hard work it is for him to sit and do nothing. But I cannot help fearing that he is taking care too late. He has complained of constant pain in his eyes since he left off work."

"Oh, you must not let yourself get nervous," said Mrs. Tregoning. "What you fancy to be a bad symptom may mean nothing very serious. Will he undergo an operation?"

"I believe so," said Ida, rather tremulously. "Father saw the oculist yesterday, but he would tell me little about the interview. He thought he was saving me pain, perhaps, but it is dreadful to be left to imagine all kinds of things because one is ignorant of the true state of the case."

"Yes," said Mrs. Tregoning, "the fear of trouble is often harder to bear than actual trouble. But I cannot let you dwell upon sad thoughts, Ida. Come and see the changes I have been making since you were here. You must give me your opinion of the study I have contrived for Theodore."

Ida followed her to the small room at the back of the house which had been converted into a special sanctum for Theodore Tregoning. Everything that his mother's ingenuity, restricted as it was by limited means, could do to make the room cosy and pleasant had been done. The effect of the common, showy lodging-house furniture was softened by many a simple, inexpensive addition, the purchase of which had yet cost the mother some sacrifice. But, despite her pains, the room had little the appearance of a clergyman's study. It contained few books, one small book-case holding them all, whilst it was littered with objects the connection of which with the study of divinity it would be rather difficult to determine. Clearly studies and researches of another kind than those of the theologian were carried on here. One side of the apartment was fitted up with glass cases, comprising a miniature museum. Here were brilliant butterflies, and beetles; stuffed birds, lizards, and snakes; birds' eggs, fossils, pieces of spar of various kinds, all duly arranged and classified. Ida gazed around her in astonishment. What she saw was giving her a new conception of Theodore Tregoning.

"Did you ever see a more untidy bachelor's den?" asked Mrs. Tregoning. "It is of no use my trying to keep it tidy, it always gets as you see it now. Theodore is proud of his collections, and takes great pains in arranging them, but he has generally more specimens than he knows what to do with, and till he has found a place for them, they litter the room. Look at this rubbish now; how can any room be tidy when he brings such things into it?"

Ida glanced at the corner indicated by Mrs. Tregoning. It certainly did not present an inviting aspect. A heap of vegetable refuse, an earthenware pan full of blackish water in which various indefinable objects were floating, a glass jar also full of muddy water but animated by the struggles of innumerable tadpoles, one or two flasks closely sealed containing apparently a substance like hay in a state of infusion—such were some of the objects grouped together on the spot which Mrs. Tregoning was regarding with a look of mild horror.

But Ida broke into a laugh as she looked at them. "Certainly they do not seem very charming," she said, "but I suppose Mr. Tregoning likes them. Or is he obliged to study them?"

"Oh, it is just his hobby," said his mother; "he cares for nothing so much as for natural science. As you may imagine, those nasty things have nothing to do with his reading for holy orders. Look at that monster; does it not make you shiver to see it?"

She pointed as she spoke to a jar containing a defunct toad of magnificent proportions, preserved in spirits of wine.

But Ida did not shiver. She moved nearer, and looked at the monster with interest.

"How can you bear to look at it?" asked Mrs. Tregoning. "Geraldine screamed and almost went into hysterics when she came upon it unexpectedly. She calls this room the 'chamber of horrors.'"

"This toad is not so horrible," said Ida, calmly; "one can hardly call it pretty, though I daresay, if I understood all about it, I should see a beauty of structure more wonderful than mere beauty of appearance."

"Why, that is what Theo says," remarked his mother, with an air of surprise.

"Look at that skull and those crossbones, Ida," she continued. "Would you like to have those tokens of your mortality always in view? But Theo is so strange in his tastes. In that box he has all the bones belonging to a skeleton, and I believe he understands the anatomy of the human frame as well as any medical man. He means to do very practical work as a clergyman. He says that he shall teach his parishioners about the laws of health and how disease may be prevented. He takes far more interest in such matters than in theological studies. It is quite a trouble to him that he has to read theology."

Ida glanced at the book-shelves. The scientific books upon them outnumbered the works of divinity.

"What a pity he should be obliged to read what he does not like!" remarked Ida, simply.

"Oh, as to that, we all have to do things that we do not like," replied Mrs. Tregoning, quickly. "If, as I hope, Theodore becomes some day the incumbent of a rural living, he will have ample time and opportunity to indulge his scientific tastes."

Ida said nothing. Her face wore a grave, thoughtful expression that made Mrs. Tregoning little uneasy as she observed it. Yet why should she disturb herself about the girl's thoughts? How could Ida judge of Theodore's fitness for the calling of a clergyman?

Glancing about the room, Ida's eyes were now attracted by a photograph, which, handsomely framed, hung above the low mantelshelf. It was the photograph of a well-known painting of the Saviour of the World, generally extolled as a work of art, but Ida's glance rested with pain on the thorn-crowned brow and the wan, emaciated, agonised face, for it was instinct with suffering, and suffering only.

"What do you think of that photograph?" asked Mrs. Tregoning. "Geraldine brought it for me to hang up there."

"I do not like it," said Ida, in a low voice. "How can he bear to have that sad, sad face always before him?"

"Oh, why not?" asked Mrs. Tregoning. "You know we are told always to bear about with us the dying of our Lord Jesus. Geraldine likes that photograph so much; she has one hanging in her boudoir."

Ida made no reply.

And Mrs. Tregoning, remembering to whom she was speaking, allowed the subject to drop.

Ida could not remain very long with her friend. As she was walking homewards, she met Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook on their way back from St. Angela's. They were on the other side of the road, and as they walked along, talking gaily, with an air of mutual confidence and appreciation, Theodore Tregoning had eyes only for his fair companion. But Ida felt almost sure that Geraldine's sweeping glance had rested on her with a momentary gleam of recognition. If it were so, Miss Seabrook gave no sign of knowing her. The lace-bordered parasol was lowered a little as its possessor turned a smiling glance upon Mr. Tregoning, carefully refraining from looking beyond him till Ida was out of sight.

The sight of them thus together seemed to confirm the hope Mrs. Tregoning had expressed.

"It will surely be as she wishes," thought Ida; "they will be married some day. And yet how different they are! He is so bright and open; one can read his thoughts before he utters them, for he has no idea of concealing anything. But she, I am sure she saw me just now, yet how cleverly she pretended that she did not. His words ring true, but her sweet, soft tones grate on me somehow, and fill me with distrust.

"'Not in the least worldly-minded,' Mrs. Tregoning said. And yet what is it to be worldly-minded, I wonder? I do not like the way in which she talks, and her very gaiety seems to me forced, whilst he is as fresh and glad as a boy. But I cannot call him boyish in the sense in which I call Wilfred so. He is a strong, true man. And he must be very clever in a scientific way, to know all about those queer things that he collects. What a pity he cannot study them altogether! He might become a great man of science."

Musing thus, Ida arrived at home. She was still weighing the respective merits of Mr. Tregoning and Miss Seabrook, as, with Marie's assistance, she removed her walking-dress, and she surprised her nurse by saying abruptly, "Marie, are husbands and wives generally very different from each other?"

"What do you mean, Miss Ida?" asked Marie, puzzled, as she well might be, at the strange question.

"I mean," said Ida, colouring and smiling, "does a man often choose for his wife a woman whose character and disposition are the opposite of his own?"

"Why, yes! That is most often the case, I do think," said Marie, with a significant smile; "there's a charm in contrasts, I suppose. It was so with Fritz and me, anyhow, for no one can say we are a bit alike, can they, miss?"

"No, certainly, you are not alike," replied Ida, not smiling, but looking as if she had made a discovery that had for her a special interest; "I never thought of it before."

"Fritz is that dull and mute he might almost as well be without a tongue, so little does he use it, but I was always fond of letting my tongue wag," continued Marie. "I have often wondered how he came to take a fancy to me. I knew how it was with him, poor fellow, long enough before he could out with it. It made me laugh to see how slow he was. Sometimes he had the words at the tip of his tongue, and a word or a laugh from me would drive them away. Oh! It is droll that I should mate with such a one, but there are advantages in having a quiet husband."

Ida broke into a merry laugh as she heard Marie's concluding words, and then, her preparations complete, she hastened away, her glad young laugh still rippling forth as she ran downstairs.

Marie laughed too as her eyes followed the slight, graceful form of her young lady. "She is thinking of Master Wilfred," Marie reflected sagely. "To be sure, he is very different from her—not nearly so wise and good, but then the women are always wiser than the men. And though Miss Ida does speak of him so slightingly sometimes, I know she is very fond of him. She cannot deceive her old nurse, bless her!"

But for once the wise woman deceived herself, since Ida had not given a thought to Wilfred as she put her questions.

### CHAPTER X.

ANXIETY.

IT happened that Ida saw a good deal of Theodore Tregoning during the ensuing week. When Miss Seabrook came for her next sitting to the young sculptor, she was accompanied by Mr. Tregoning. Rather to Wilfred's annoyance, he remained in the studio the whole time, lingering by Miss Seabrook's side and distracting her attention, for she would talk to him, in spite of Wilfred's entreaties that she would keep still.

Ida also was present, and as she observed these two, her belief that Mrs. Tregoning's hope would be fulfilled grew stronger. Tregoning could no more conceal his love for Miss Seabrook than he could any other vivid emotion of his soul. And the manner in which Geraldine listened to him and smiled on him might well be taken to indicate that she was not indifferent to the adoring reverence which his every look and word to her revealed. Ida, who had read no modern novels, and whose ideas of love were drawn from Shakspeare and from poets for older than he, watched with strange fascination the romance which was being enacted before her eyes. There seemed little doubt that it would come to the usual happy issue, and yet the faintest shadow of doubt did lie on Ida's mind, for, whilst she blamed herself for suspecting evil of another, she could not feel certain that Geraldine Seabrook really was what she appeared to be.

But Ida Nicolari had other and graver matters to ponder than the course of this romance. Her father, with his usual stoical calm, was enduring a sore trial of patience. Save for a short visit to the studio to mark the progress Fritz was making with the Psyche, or advise Wilfred with regard to his work, the sculptor now passed his days, sitting with shaded eyes, doing nothing. Ida did her best to beguile the tedium of these idle hours. She would sit by his side reading to him favourite passages from his loved Plato, or from any book that he chose, or discussing the topics most interesting to him. But it seemed to her that these efforts were worthless, and she felt very grateful to Theodore Tregoning for "dropping in" evening after evening to have a chat with the sculptor.

Tregoning, in his warm-hearted sympathy, was anxious to brighten the old man's weary hours, and he succeeded. At first Antonio, though courteous, was cold in his hearing towards him, but gradually his prejudice against the class to which Tregoning belonged yielded to the influence of the young man's simplicity and candour. There was a freshness and buoyancy about Theodore Tregoning which made his presence as cheering as spring sunshine and as exhilarating as a breath of moorland air. Ida could see that her father brightened at his entrance, and the satisfaction on his face was reflected on hers.

It was not alone for the sake of Antonio Nicolari that Tregoning came. He had not forgotten the promise he had given Ida. He would bring a book for her or a magazine in which was an article she might like to see, and these generally bore on the subject Ida had most at heart. But perhaps he best helped her by unconsciously showing her that his own true, strong, healthful life was inspired by a reverent faith in Him who claims the love and allegiance of all mankind.

Ida needed neither argument nor elaborate proof to convince her that Jesus Christ was the True One. The life-giving touch of the Spirit of God awakened a ready response in her simple, childlike spirit. Naturally, instinctively, as a flower opens in the sunshine, her life expanded and brightened beneath the rays that stream from the Divine Light of the world. She could not have told how it was, but as she read and studied the Gospels every shadow of doubt faded from her mind, and with joy she recognised in Jesus One who was all-true, all-pure, all-lovely. Nor did she regard Christ merely as a beautiful Example—a great Master. She saw in Him the world's Redeemer, who had laid down His life as an atonement for the sins of men, and who, by virtue of that sacrifice, could and would deliver weak, erring mortals from the power of evil, and make possible to them the holiness and purity for which in her best moments her heart had ever yearned. And as faith and love towards the Saviour awoke in her with the perception of this truth, life had henceforth a fuller, richer meaning for Ida Nicolari.

Yet there were shadows gathering about her, and at times a presentiment of coming sorrow lay heavy on her heart. Theodore Tregoning, calling one afternoon at the sculptor's house in Cheyne Walk, found Ida alone in the drawing-room. She was sitting in the window without book or needle-work, apparently doing nothing more profitable than gazing on the river. Tregoning saw a change in the pure, delicate-featured face as she turned to greet him. It was paler than usual, and there was sorrow in the eyes and care on the brow. She did not even smile as she put out her hand, but he felt no doubt of his welcome. Instinctively he knew as their eyes met that Ida was glad he had come.

"How is Mr. Nicolari?" he asked, guessing at the cause of her disturbed look. "No worse, I trust?"

"I do not know," said Ida, with a desponding air, "but I fear his sight is worse. I happened just now to be at the head of the stairs, and I saw him pass down the passage to the studio, and he was groping his way along by the wall just as if he were blind! The passage is rather gloomy, but I never saw him do that before. I cannot tell you what a shock it gave me!"

"I can well believe it," said Tregoning, his look and tone full of sympathy. "I suppose Mr. Nicolari must just then have experienced one of those sudden failures of sight of which he complains. Is he now in the studio?"

"Yes," she replied with a sigh, "he is in the studio, taking a last look at it, as he says, for—the operation takes place to-morrow, and—we cannot foretell the result."

Tregoning was silent. The very intensity of his sympathy made it difficult for him to speak. He knew now why Ida looked so sad and anxious.

"It is foolish of me, I know," said Ida, speaking with an effort. "I ought to be more brave and hopeful, but I cannot help dreading the result."

"You have encouragement to hope for the best," said Theodore Tregoning. "Dr. Ward is esteemed one of the first of oculists, and it is wonderful what can be done for diseased eyes. One can hardly credit some of the marvels now wrought by ophthalmic science. I was reading the other day about a most remarkable operation recently performed in New York."

And, hoping to divert her from her painful thoughts, he proceeded to explain the nature of the operation. Ida was interested as she listened, though less perhaps in the experiment he described than in the self-revelation he unconsciously made as he explained to her the wonderful mechanism of the human eye, and the various means by which science was able to remedy its defects or maladies.

"How well you understand it!" she said. "Why, Dr. Ward himself could not have explained things more clearly. One would think you had studied surgery."

"So I have, to some extent," he said, his face lighting up with enthusiasm, "but only as an amateur, unfortunately. I used to wish that I could be a surgeon or a medical man of some kind. I should have loved to devote my life to practical science, but I had to renounce the idea."

He ended with a sigh and a sudden clouding of the bright manly face.

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Ida, impulsively. "Oh, why did you give up the idea? Surely you were meant for such a life!"

"I thought so once," he said rather sadly, "but the way was hedged in with difficulty, and others urged me with persuasions I could not resist to follow another career. I thought it right to sacrifice my own inclinations. Do you think I did wrong?"

"Yes, I do think you were wrong," said Ida, with youthful decision: "you have forsaken your true vocation. A man should obey the voice of nature when it calls him to any special work. My father was thus called to be a sculptor, and was it not well that he obeyed? Has he not lived a true and noble life, and blessed the world by the forms of beauty he has created? Would he have done as well if he had followed another calling? I cannot think so."

"Of course not. You are certainly right in what you say regarding Mr. Nicolari," Theodore said, "but in my case there are circumstances—"

He hesitated, at a loss how to explain his position.

"I cannot but think," said Ida, without heeding his last hesitating words, "that it would be well for you, even now, to alter your plans, and take up the work for which you were intended. It is not too late. You are but entering on your duties as a curate."

"Oh, I could not withdraw now," Theodore Tregoning exclaimed, his voice full of pain; "that is impossible. I could not so grieve Geraldine."

The words escaped him almost unawares. He coloured deeply, and looked away in confusion, when he knew how he had betrayed himself.

Ida's colour also rose. She would have given anything to recall her thoughtless, impetuous words. What could he think of her for presuming to find fault with him and tell him what he ought to do?

"Oh, please forgive me! I ought not to have said it," she pleaded, with childlike contrition in voice and look. "It was foolish; it was impertinent of me to make such a suggestion."

"Not at all; it was very kind, it was friendly of you," said Tregoning, forgetting his embarrassment, and speaking in his usual warm tones. "But you can understand that it would not be easy to make such a change. Life is not so simple as it seems. One cannot always follow the course most congenial to one's own mind. One has to consider the feelings of others."

"Yes, yes, I understand," faltered Ida, still vexed with herself. "I ought not to have said it; of course I cannot know."

Conversation was not very easy after this, and presently Tregoning went away, leaving Ida to her own reflections. They were not pleasant. She continued to blame herself for her hasty utterance. It had been worse than useless, for of course he would not renounce the profession which had been chosen for him; Miss Seabrook's influence over him was too strong for that. He thought so much of what she said. He was constantly quoting her words, as if her opinion must have more weight than his own. "Geraldine," he had called her, as though he had a right thus to use her name. Did he already look upon her as his future wife?

"Will she mould him into likeness to herself when they are married?" Ida wondered, with a strange sense of uneasiness. "Yes," she replied to her own question, "she will spoil his life. She will bind him down to a narrow, fettered existence, when he might be doing a great and noble work in the world. How strange it seems that he, so true a man, should be in such a false position! He would make a first-rate surgeon, but, somehow, I cannot think that as a clergyman he will live the highest life possible to him."

Another direction was given to Ida's thoughts by the entrance of her father.

As he came slowly towards her, she perceived a new intensity in the melancholy that had marked his mien all day.

"Is anything the matter, father?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered very quietly, "a flaw has come to light in the marble from which Fritz is cutting the Psyche, a dark vein of colour running right across the figure."

"Oh, father, you do not say so!" exclaimed Ida, in tones of dismay. "Oh, the poor Psyche! What will you do?"

"Nothing can be done save to begin the work over again on another block," said the sculptor, calmly. "It is a pity, for the work was progressing well, and the delay will cause great inconvenience. And perhaps," he added, in a low, sad tone, "I shall not see my Psyche in the marble now."

"Father, don't speak so!" exclaimed Ida, springing forward, and clasping his arm with both her hands, in her eagerness to stay his foreboding utterance. "You must hope that the operation will prove a success. There is every reason to hope it—Mr. Tregoning says so. He has been telling me of such wonderful cures. And Dr. Ward is one of the best oculists—and indeed, father, I feel almost sure that you will be cured."

Antonio made no reply, and his countenance did not brighten. It was with a troubled, hopeless look that he bent and kissed his daughter's brow.

Ida's last words seemed to ring in her ears with a hollow, mocking echo, as, perceiving that dizziness and loss of vision had again overwhelmed her father, she led him to a chair. The chill, iron grasp of dread clutched her heart once more, and she could not shake it off.

### CHAPTER XI.

BLIND!

ANXIETY can seldom dwell long in the heart of the young. Ida, awakened the next morning by the sun shining into her window with a brilliance rarely seen so early on an April morn in London, hailed it as good omen. This was the dreaded day of the operation, but she would not shrink from the thought of it. If, as she hoped, it resulted in her father's restored eyesight, would she not look back upon this day with thankfulness? She must be brave and hopeful, and do all she could to cheer her father. That he was brave enough to undergo the operation with unflinching courage, Ida knew well, but she feared that his hope had sunk very low.

It was pleasant along the Embankment on this bright, sunny morn. When Ida threw open her window, she saw the river shining like silver in the sunshine and every boat and barge beautified by glorious rays. The sky was of pale, clear blue, save for a bank of pearly clouds to the westward. The trees before the house just opening their young leaves had made wonderful progress during the night, and now stood in freshest, daintiest array, seemingly conscious of their new beauty as they waved and rustled in the light, soft breeze. The lilacs and laburnums in the garden below breathed forth their gratitude in sweet odours, which reached Ida as she leaned forward drinking in with delight the gladness of the day. She too gave thanks to the Giver of all good, and rejoiced that the world was so fair. The rustling leaves, the sweet-smelling blossoms, the rich sunshine, all spoke to her of love. The world was ruled by Love. How could she doubt that all would be well with her and with her father?

The clock was striking eight as she entered the dining-room. Ida and her father were wont to sit down to breakfast punctually at this hour. Antonio was an early riser, and had often worked for an hour in the studio before the morning meal. He was one who adhered tenaciously to habit, and since his enforced idleness, Ida had in vain urged him to rest longer in bed. She was surprised, therefore, on entering the room to see that he was not there. Thinking he was perhaps talking with Fritz in the studio, she waited a while. But when the large hand of the clock pointed to a quarter past the hour, Ida began to feel rather uneasy. It was so unusual for her father to be thus unpunctual.

Ida rang the bell. Marie appeared in response to the summons. She looked surprised to see the young lady alone.

"Do you know if my father has come down, Marie?" said Ida.

"I have not seen him, Miss Ida," said the servant. "But surely at this hour—"

"Perhaps he is in the studio," said Ida.

"I hardly think so," said Marie, "for Fritz has just come in to get his breakfast, and he has said nothing about the master. But then Fritz is always so saving of his breath. I'll ask him."

She went away, but returned almost immediately, saying, "Fritz says the master has not been to the studio. Do you think anything has happened? Do you think he can be ill, Miss Ida?"

"Anything happened!" The vague words sent a thrill through Ida. She rose hurriedly, her face paling as she said, "I will go and see."

Her heart beat painfully as she hastened upstairs. As she paused for a moment listening anxiously outside her father's door, a warm stream of sunshine fell on her through the landing window. The cheering radiance brought hope.

"All must be well," she whispered to herself as she tapped at the door.

"Come in," said the voice of Antonio.

And as she heard the calm, familiar tones, every fear vanished. She opened the door, and with light, quick step advanced into the room. She was surprised to find father still in bed.

"So you have taken my advice at last, and have indulged in an extra nap," she said brightly; "that is all, I trust. You are not ill, are you, father dear?"

Though she spoke almost gaily, there was fresh anxiety in her glance as she bent to kiss him, for she was dimly conscious of something unusual in the look of his upturned eyes, something new in the appealing, haggard expression.

"Certainly I am not ill, child; why should you think it?" he said, looking not at her but beyond her, as it seemed to Ida. "You are stirring betimes, this morning."

"Oh no, father, it is late," she said; "I will fetch you your breakfast directly."

"Breakfast!" he repeated. "Why do you want me to breakfast so early? Is it because of the operation? What is the time, Ida? I should think it was the middle of the night were I not so restless, and did I not hear so much stirring outside."

"The middle of the night!" faltered Ida, bewildered and alarmed. "Why, father dear, what are you thinking of? It is past eight o'clock."

"Past eight o'clock! Impossible!" he said, the look of pain deepening on his face. "Or if so, it is surely a very gloomy day. Is there a fog?"

"A fog! Oh, father, what can you mean? It is lovely. The sun is shining as if it were summer."

There were anguish and terror now on the upturned face. But no utterance was given to them. Antonio only said hoarsely:

"Pull up the blinds, Ida. Pull them up high. Let all the light you can into the room."

Tremblingly, she obeyed. Every pane was bared, and the sunlight poured into the room and made a broad expanse of light on the floor between the bed and the window.

Antonio turned to meet the light. It shone full on his worn, seamed face and square, furrowed brow, and into the deep-sunken eyes opened wide to receive it. But the eyelids did not quiver, nor the pupils shrink from the strong light. The look she saw on her father's face sent a thrill of sudden terror through Ida.

"Oh, father, what is it?" she cried, her tones vibrating with fear. "What is the matter? Why do you look like that?"

Antonio's features worked strangely, but controlling himself by a strong effort, he said, "The room is full of light, is it not?"

"Yes, full," she answered scarce above a whisper, as the bitter truth came home to her. Not that she at once received it as truth, but it struck her as an awful possibility.

"Then it is as I feared," said Antonio; and with that, he turned and buried his face in the pillow.

Ida remained standing motionless where she was. As she stood by the window in the blaze of sunlight, she felt like one turned to stone. Never could she forget the horrible, despairful sense of utter helplessness in the grasp of a cruel, inexorable fate, which possessed her at that moment.

Terrible was the silence which ensued. She could neither move nor speak. If it were as she feared, how could words avail to lighten her father's woe? She shrank from speech, dreading to hear embodied in words the dire calamity in which she was trying hard not to believe.

For a while Antonio lay perfectly still, like one whom a heavy blow had stunned. How long they had remained thus Ida could not have told, when a tap at the door roused her from her stupor of fear.

It was Marie, whose anxiety to know why her young lady did not return, but suffered the breakfast to grow cold upon the table, could no longer be restrained.

As Ida moved towards the door, her father raised his head and said abruptly:

"Let no one enter. And go you away, child, and leave me to myself."

But Ida could not leave him. It was not easy to stay Marie's questions, but Ida did arrest them, and sent that worthy woman away in mingled wonder, indignation, and dismay. Then she went back into the room and seated herself beside the bed.

Her father's face was again hidden. Not a word or moan escaped him, but that he was smitten to the heart with sorest sorrow Ida knew well. Presently, as she watched him, her fear took a new form. Anxious to rouse him, she took one of his hands in hers and pressed her cold lips to it. He moved at her touch, and said, without looking round, "Are you still there, Ida? Why do you not go away?"

"I cannot," she said brokenly. "Father, tell me, are you ill? Is your sight worse?"

"Worse!" he cried bitterly. "I am blind, child, totally blind. The evil I have most dreaded has come upon me. Life is robbed of all that made it precious. I am dead whilst yet living. Oh, death, actual death, would be infinitely less bitter!"

"But, father, you will see again. It cannot be, it is impossible that you are really blind. When the operation—"

"There can be no operation now," he broke in; "the sight is gone beyond recall. Dr. Ward warned me that this might come. I think he expected it."

"Oh, father, don't give up hope," Ida pleaded. "Wait till Dr. Ward comes; wait till he has examined your eyes. You must be mistaken in thinking the case so bad."

He shook his head in utter despair.

Again Ida was silent, whilst she contemplated with inexpressible emotion the chasm of deep, unending misery which had so suddenly opened before them. That keenest of all sorrows, the despair of a young soul overwhelmed by its first experience of the dark possibilities of human life, was hers. The sunshine still pouring into the room seemed hard and cruel to her now. She would have shut it out if she could have done so without disturbing her father.

It was a relief to her as she sat thus to hear Marie ascending the stairs. Again the zealous servant knocked at the door. This time she thrust into Ida's hands a tray on which were some coffee and rusks.

"Ill or well, one must eat," she said; "try to persuade the master to take something. And you too, Miss Ida, you will faint if you continue fasting."

Ida felt it impossible to eat, but she blamed herself for not having remembered that her father needed food. She carried the tray to the side of the bed and placed it on a little table that stood there.

"Father," she said coaxingly, pleadingly, with tears in her eyes, "Marie has made you some nice coffee, just as you like it; do please try to drink it. You will be ill if you take nothing."

The sorrowful, pleading tone went to her father's heart. Though he could not see the tears in her eyes, he knew that they were there. He raised himself and put out his hand—the cunning, skilful hand with long supple fingers, bearing the traces of years of toil, which, alas, was never to use sculptor's tools again—put it out with hesitating, uncertain aim to reach the coffee.

Ida could have cried aloud as she guided his hand to the cup and helped him to raise it to his lips.

He ate and drank mechanically, obeying a sense of duty rather than any desire for food.

"I must not make the burden heavier than need be, child," he said. "If my life is spoiled, there is no reason why yours should be. This world will henceforth be to me a living grave, but you are young, and life is still bright with promise for you."

"It cannot be bright for me if it is dark for you," cried Ida, vehemently. "Oh, father, if only I could give you my eyes!"

"Do you think I would take them if you could?" he said. "Do not let us speak wildly, Ida. We must bow to the inevitable; I have given way to weakness long enough. Go now, child, and send Fritz to me."

An hour later Antonio Nicolari, little changed in outward appearance, was seated in his usual place in the dining-room, with Ida on a low chair beside him. Each blind and curtain was closely drawn, to shut out the pitiless radiance of the day.

Ida felt almost to hate the sunlight, which, in spite of all her endeavours to exclude it, would penetrate through every crack and crevice. Hardly a word passed between father and daughter as they sat side by side. No voice of poet or philosopher could give consolation adequate for such sorrow as theirs, and the Divine Comforter in whom she had begun to trust seemed to Ida in this strange, bewildering trouble as One afar off.

Slowly, drearily the morning passed on, till at noon a loud peal of the house-bell announced the arrival of Dr. Ward and his assistant. Antonio had directed that the doctors should be shown into his private room. Ida led him to the door of that apartment. Ere he entered, he paused to give her a word of warning.

"Remember, Ida," he said, "that I know my doom. There is no ground for hope. Don't try to deceive yourself, child."

But as Ida went back to the dining-room, she was still clinging to hope, though a very slender thread of hope it was. It seemed to her that she waited an age, hearing nothing but a faint murmur of voices in the next room, but in reality it was barely half an hour ere the door opened and the doctors came out. The assistant took his departure immediately, but Dr. Ward knocked at the dining-room door and entered the room almost before Ida could respond to his knock.

The oculist was a man past middle age, with silvery hair and beard, and an earnest benevolent face. There was fatherly kindness in his manner as he took the girl's trembling hands in his and answered the question she could put only with her eyes.

"Dear Miss Nicolari, I wish I could bring you comfort, but, alas, this is a case that can be met only by resignation."

"You mean that my father will always be blind?" came tremblingly from Ida's lips.

Dr. Ward bowed his head. He could not bring himself to utter words that must wound so cruelly.

Ida stood motionless for a few moments with her hands clasped tightly before her. Then her spirit rose in wild resistance to the pressure of woe. She looked up at the doctor, exclaiming impetuously, "Oh, is there nothing that can be done—no operation that might cure him? My father would endure anything if only he could get back his sight. Oh, think what it means! Art is everything to him. How can he live cut off from it, shut out from all light, all beauty? Oh, he can never bear such a life!"

"My dear Miss Nicolari, I know well how bitter it must be," said Dr. Ward; "sight is the most precious of our bodily senses. To lose it is like losing life. If anything could be done or attempted in this case, how gladly would I do it! But the sight is hopelessly gone; there is no recovery from this paralysis."

A shudder ran through Ida's slender frame. She sank on to a chair and burst into tears. The doctor was glad to see those tears.

"Yes, cry, my child, cry," he said tenderly; "it will do you good. Give way as you will now; by-and-by I know you will be brave and strong to help your father. He will bear his trouble as bravely as man can, but he will need all the comfort you can give him."

"Oh, my father!" exclaimed Ida, making an effort to check her sobs. "What must he be feeling now! I must go to him."

"Not yet," said the doctor, "he cannot bear even your presence now. He wishes to be left to himself for a while, and he asked me to tell you so. Like most strong men, he would struggle with his anguish alone. By-and-by he will need you, and you will be able to help him."

"Oh, how can I help him?" cried Ida, in tones that thrilled the heart of the listener. "Oh, tell me what I can do! There is nothing I would not do; I would gladly be blind, if only my father might see. He cares for nothing but his work, and I—I care for nothing save to see him happy."

Dr. Ward looked pityingly, yet with admiration on the noble, beautiful face which, though wan and wet with tears, was glorified by the purest womanly feeling.

"God bless you, my child!" he said, in tender, reverent accents. "You 'will' help your father; you will be eyes to him and light and sunshine. You will teach him to see the beauty of earth and sky and every lovely thing through your eyes. Do not fear; you cannot fail to comfort him."

And deeply touched, he pressed her hand and went away. Life seemed a nobler and grander thing to him that day because of the glimpse he had had into the heart of a strong and loving woman.

Ida remained where he had left her, lost in deep thought. "Oh, if I knew of any help!" she said half aloud. Like a response to her cry came to mind the words which, ever since she first heard them as she waited with Marie in the church-porch, had at times echoed through her heart—"'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

The sense of her utter weakness and helplessness beneath the crushing burden of this sorrow brought a childlike cry of faith to her lips—"O Thou who didst speak those words, Thou who didst give sight to the blind, and help to every troubled one who sought Thee, have pity on my father and on me. Teach me how I may help him. Strengthen me that I may be strong to support him, and may I never think nor care about anything but how I may comfort him!"

### CHAPTER XII.

PATIENT ENDURANCE.

IDA was still sitting alone; she had hardly moved since Dr. Ward took his departure, when a step came rapidly along the passage from the studio, and Wilfred burst into the room.

"Ida!" he exclaimed, almost breathless from haste and agitation. "What is this Fritz tells me? Of course he is making a mistake. It is impossible that it can be true."

But ere he finished speaking, Ida's look had confirmed Wilfred's fear. "Oh, Ida," he faltered, and tears rose into his eyes, "you do not mean that it is true?"

"It is true," said Ida, scarce above a whisper. "My father is blind."

There was a pause of a few moments ere Wilfred exclaimed impatiently: "But he can be cured. Of course he can be cured. What is the good of the thousands of doctors there are and the hospitals and medical schools, and all the talk about science, if there is no cure for such a simple case as this?"

"Doctors cannot do impossibilities," said Ida, sadly. "My father is an old man. Dr. Ward says that his sight is gone beyond recall."

"Dr. Ward is an old woman!" began Wilfred, with an impatient kick at the fender.

"No, no, don't be unjust, Will," said Ida, in gentlest tones; "Dr. Ward is very skilful, but there is a limit to his power. You must not speak against him, for he has been most kind."

"But it is so dreadful!" cried Wilfred. "To think that the work of Antonio Nicolari should come to an end thus! Smitten with blindness! How will he bear it? Oh, Ida, when I talked so carelessly of his wearing out his eyes, I never thought of anything like this."

"I am sure that you did not," said Ida, unable to keep back her tears. "I know that you feel this trouble almost as much as I do, for you know what my father's life has been, and how unutterably bitter must be to him the loss of sight. You will help me, will you not, Wilfred? You will help me to take care of my father, and to comfort him, as far as that is possible?"

"I will, indeed," said Wilfred, a more earnest look on his face than Ida had ever seen there; "I will do all I can to help you. We will take care of him together."

He took her hand as he spoke, and Ida suffered it to lie in his for a few moments. She saw that Wilfred was deeply moved, and it was soothing to know that he shared her grief. He was her most intimate friend and companion, almost as a brother to her. Never had he seemed dearer or more brother-like than now. Instinctively, Ida leaned upon his sympathy and found comfort in his promise of help.

But now the house-bell rang with one of those impressive peals that one is apt to imagine must announce an important arrival. Wilfred, glancing through the window, saw a carriage at the door.

"It is Miss Seabrook," he exclaimed in a tone of vexation; "I had quite forgotten that she was coming to sit to me this morning. I must ask her to excuse me; I really cannot settle to work after nearing this."

"The news must have given you a sad shock," said Ida, "but, Wilfred, I believe that nothing would be more comforting to my father now than to know that you were making good use of the studio."

"Of course I shall work harder than ever in future," said Wilfred, "but to-day I think I might be excused. I suppose you do not care to see Miss Seabrook, Ida?"

"Oh no, do not let her come here!" cried Ida, in haste. "I could not bear to see any one, least of all Miss Seabrook."

Wilfred smiled significantly as he passed out of the room.

Miss Seabrook did not remain long in the studio. When Wilfred had told her of the affliction that had befallen the sculptor, and she had drawn from him all the information he could give, she herself decided that there should be no sitting that day. She charged Wilfred to give her best love and sympathy to Miss Nicolari, and the promise of a visit as soon as she could hope that Miss Nicolari would be willing to see her. Then she wished him good morning, and stepping into her carriage bade the coachman drive to Mrs. Tregoning's.

She found that lady and her son sitting together, having just finished luncheon.

"Welcome, Geraldine," said Mrs. Tregoning, with a smile. "You are too late to lunch with us, but not too late to have luncheon."

"Oh, thank you, I have lunched," said Geraldine. "I took my luncheon early before going to Mr. Nicolari's studio. I had arranged to sit for Mr. Ormiston, but there has been no sitting, for I learned such sad news there that I had not the heart to stay. The Nicolaris are in great trouble."

"Dear me! I am sorry to hear that," exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. "What is it?"

"The operation was to take place to-day," said Theodore, quickly. "I hope nothing has gone wrong with that?"

"There has been no operation," said Miss Seabrook; "it is out of the question now. Mr. Nicolari woke this morning to find himself quite blind."

"Blind!" repeated Mrs. Tregoning. "You cannot mean that he is actually, absolutely blind?"

"'Stone-blind,' Mr. Ormiston said, and I suppose he would hardly exaggerate. The oculist gives not the least hope of his recovery. So there is an end to Mr. Nicolari's work as a sculptor. Is it not a pity?"

"It is terrible!" Theodore Tregoning said, looking very troubled. "Nicolari's life will be worth nothing to him shrouded in perpetual darkness. How can he bear such a trial? And his daughter—oh, how his daughter will suffer on his account!"

He leaned forward and screened his face with his hand, instinctively desiring to hide his emotion, but Miss Seabrook could see that he was greatly moved. She wondered, and was slightly annoyed that he should show such feeling, for she, whilst ready enough to utter expressions of pity, could yet contemplate with complacency the calamity which had befallen Antonio Nicolari.

"Oh, my poor Ida!" exclaimed Mrs. Tregoning. "She will indeed suffer. This will cause her bitter sorrow, for she is so devoted to her father."

"I should have thought that Mr. Nicolari was the one to be commiserated," said Geraldine, her pretty lips curling as she spoke.

"To be sure he is," said Theodore, "but it is easier to conceive of Miss Nicolari's grief than of his. Life will be an utter blank to him now, except for his daughter's presence."

"Yes, his child will be a comfort to him," said Mrs. Tregoning. "He will learn her value now. I have felt jealous sometimes for Ida's sake of his excessive devotion to art."

"How did you know that the operation was to take place to-day?" Geraldine inquired of Theodore Tregoning.

"Miss Nicolari told me so when I was there yesterday," he said.

"Were you there yesterday?" said Geraldine, slightly raising her eyebrows.

"Theo has been to Mr. Nicolari's almost every day lately," said his mother. "Mr. Nicolari was glad of his company whilst sitting in darkness. Ah, poor man, he will always be in darkness now. You will go there to-day, will you not, Theodore?"

"Yes, I shall go there," said Theodore, decidedly. "I doubt whether he will care to see me, but I shall certainly call."

"Mr. Ormiston said that they could see no one," remarked Miss Seabrook.

"They would, of course, shrink from seeing ordinary acquaintances," said Mrs. Tregoning, "but a clergyman is different."

Theodore coloured and bit his lips as he heard her words. "I should not go as a clergyman, but as a friend," he said.

"Would it be well to ask Dr. St. Clair to call?" suggested Geraldine. Dr. St. Clair was the rector of St. Angela's.

"Oh, my dear, a stranger could do no good," said Mrs. Tregoning. "Mr. Nicolari would certainly refuse to see him."

"And Miss Nicolari would doubtless prefer to see Mr. Tregoning," said Geraldine, with covert satire in her tones, of which neither Mrs. Tregoning nor her son were aware.

They saw that she was not her usual bright self, but that was to be accounted for, they thought, by the news she had brought them.

Miss Seabrook now rose to go, and Tregoning escorted her downstairs. At the door she carelessly extended her hand to him, but as their eyes met, and she read the beseeching tenderness of his glance, she responded with one of her sweetest smiles, a smile that made the bliss of the moment perfect for Theodore, and drove from his mind for a while all thought of the Nicolaris.

Two days later, Ida was sitting with her father, when Anne brought her word that Miss Seabrook had called and was awaiting her in the drawing-room.

"Oh, Anne," exclaimed Ida, in a tone of vexation; "I thought you understood that I could see no one."

"Yes, miss, and I told the lady so, but she said she thought you would not refuse to see her, and I was to tell you that she was here."

A flush of anger rose in Ida's cheeks, but ere she could speak, her father said gently, "Why should you not receive Miss Seabrook, dear? It will cheer you to have a talk with her. I cannot let your life be darkened because mine is."

"I will go if you wish it, father," Ida said reluctantly.

"Then I do wish it," he replied.

And without another word, Ida left him and went upstairs to the drawing-room.

The two days that had passed since the stroke of blindness fell upon Antonio had tried his daughter severely. Such long, dark, hopeless days they had seemed to her young, sensitive spirit, so quick to discern every sign of her father's anguish. Though he tried hard to hide from her what he suffered, she could see that his heart was breaking. He had come forth from his lonely struggle outwardly calm. No word of complaint was allowed to pass his lips. Convinced that his loss was irreparable, he now concentrated all the strength of his nature on the effort to endure with fortitude.

But Ida was tempted to wish that her father were less brave and self-controlled. She fancied that she could have better borne to hear him utter wild and passionate repinings than to see him sit so still and silent with that set look of despair upon his face.

Even Miss Seabrook, by no means the most observant of mortals where she herself was not concerned, was struck with the change that sorrow had wrought in the face of Ida Nicolari. She greeted the sculptor's daughter with softened look and tone, and expressed her sympathy in the most appropriate terms she could command. But somehow the well-chosen words and mellifluous tones grated on Ida's ears.

"You are very kind," was all she could say in reply.

Miss Seabrook talked on, discussing the trial to her own satisfaction, if not to Ida's. But as she could gain only monosyllabic responses, the subject had soon to be abandoned. Miss Seabrook descended to commonplaces, and inquired whether Mr. Nicolari had seen a clergyman.

Ida looked puzzled. She did not understand the significance of the question.

"He has seen no one," she said. "Several persons have called, for the news has quickly got abroad, but my father cannot yet bear to speak to any one about his trouble. Mr. Tregoning kindly came in the evening before last, but my father could not see him."

"You saw him, I suppose?" said Miss Seabrook, more abruptly than she usually spoke.

"Yes," said Ida, simply. "I was glad he came, he was so kind, so full of sympathy."

"Mr. Tregoning is very sympathetic. I, who know him so well, can testify to that," said Geraldine, in significant tones. "He would be sure to know the right thing to say."

"Oh, it was not so much what he said," returned Ida; "indeed he said very little. But I knew that he felt for me, and that he understood just what I was feeling. Silence often seems to me more expressive than speech. In silence hearts draw near to each other, but speech too often reveals a lack of harmony and brings a sense of separation. Do you understand me?"

"I cannot say that I do," said Geraldine, with rather a blank stare; "Mr. Tregoning does not favour me with any of these expressive silences. He has always plenty to say when we are together."

Something in her look and tone brought the colour into Ida's cheeks.

"Of course; that is very different," she hastened to say. "You are such friends; you have so many interests in common."

Miss Seabrook's look brightened. "Yes, we have," she said. "Theodore Tregoning is my best friend, and I believe—I hope that he regards me as his friend."

"There can be no doubt of that," said Ida, warmly.

"You think not?" said Geraldine, smiling and blushing. "Ah, I see, Miss Nicolari. Like all quiet people you make good use of your powers of observation. It is impossible to hide the truth from you."

"Do you wish to hide it?" asked Ida, earnestly.

The simple, direct question caused Miss Seabrook some embarrassment.

"Well, not exactly," she said in a hesitating manner; "only, you see, there is nothing settled yet, and it would not do to set people talking before the time. And one never knows how things will turn out. But look—I must show you the precious little token I received from Mr. Tregoning this morning."

So saying she drew Ida's attention to a tiny Maltese cross, wrought in gold and blue enamel, which she wore attached to her watch-chain. The cross was engraved with certain letters which she told Ida represented the appellation of a guild connected with St. Angela's, to which both she and Theodore Tregoning belonged.

Ida looked gravely at the little token. She scarcely heeded the explanation about the guild. The gift seemed to her to signify a closer and more lasting bond.

"I hope you will be very happy," she said earnestly. "Mr. Tregoning is so good, is he not?"

"Oh, yes, he is very good," said Geraldine, with a light laugh, as she rose to take her departure. "Have you heard him preach? But I forgot that you never go to church."

"No, but I should like to hear Mr. Tregoning preach," said Ida.

"Then why do you not come to one of the Easter services at St. Angela's? I daresay Mr. Tregoning will Preach on Sunday evening, and the music will be lovely. Do come."

"It is impossible," said Ida. "I could not leave my father."

"Ah, to be sure! I forgot. What a pity! Good-bye, dear Miss Nicolari." And, rather to Ida's astonishment, Miss Seabrook bent forward and bestowed on her a little butterfly kiss.

"I suppose she meant to be kind," mused Ida, when she was left alone, "but, oh, I wonder why it is I do not like her better. I am afraid my heart is very hard and unloving."

Her face was full of sadness as she stood with clasped hands where her visitor had left her. "Life is so dark and perplexing," she murmured; "if only one could understand. 'Let not your heart be troubled,' the Lord had said, but how was that possible? I ought to be able to trust the Lord Jesus," thought Ida; "He who for our sakes bore the agony of the cross would never willingly give us pain. Perhaps this pain we deem so cruel is a dark-robed angel bringing us new, undreamed-of blessings. My father's life is darkened now, but may there not be an awakening to a new life of light and joy and beauty in the delight of which this sorrow shall seem but as a painful dream? I will hope and pray for such a dawn, if not in this life, in the life beyond. For surely, yes, I know it—there is a life that infinitely transcends this, a life of such beauty and purity and joy as the loveliest things of earth can but faintly foreshadow."

Ida's eyes flashed and her countenance glowed under the inspiration of this thought. With so light a step did she hasten back to her father that he felt sure that Miss Seabrook's visit had cheered her.

"Well!" he said, with an assumption of cheerfulness. "And what did your visitor say to you?"

"She said a good deal, but little that is worth repeating," Ida replied. "She talked chiefly about Mr. Tregoning. She is very much interested in him; I do not mind telling you, father, that I believe they will be married some day. Indeed, Miss Seabrook as good as told me so."

"Then she will have a good husband," remarked Antonio, quietly. "Theodore Tregoning is of a true and noble spirit. His life seems full of promise, but who dare say what will become of it?"

"Miss Seabrook asked me if I had heard him preach, and suggested that I should go to St. Angela's on Sunday in order to do so, but I told her it was impossible," said Ida.

"Why impossible?" asked her father, quickly. "You can certainly go, my child, if you would like it. You know that I claim no right to control you in regard to religion. Do you wish to hear this young man preach?"

"I should like to very well," faltered Ida. "But, father, I could not leave you for so long."

"My child, I will not allow you to bury yourself alive with me. If you do not like to leave me, I will go with you. Happily I have not lost the power of locomotion, although I am blind. You shall take me wherever you like, Ida. I would fain brighten your young life by every means in my power. I may be of some use to you yet, perhaps."

"Father, you are everything to me!" cried Ida, vehemently. "We will go out together, but not to St. Angela's. You would not really care to go there."

"How can I tell till I have been there?" returned Antonio. "Oh, child, I am ready to welcome any change that may give me some slight relief from my gloomy thoughts. This inaction is becoming unbearable: this room, this house, seems like a prison. Alas, it is this wretched body that is my prison-house, my dark dungeon, where I sit a hopeless captive. Now, Ida, do not cry. I know you are crying, although you keep so still. We must have patience, child. Pythagoras said that there were but two remedies for heart-sickness—hope and patience. Hope there is none for me, but I may cultivate patience."

Ida pressed her father's hand to her lips. She had no voice with which to reply to him.

### CHAPTER XIII.

AT ST. ANGELA'S.

THE following Sunday was a true Easter Day, as far as a south wind and sunshine, flowers and songs of birds, could make it such. But the brightness of the day only increased Ida's heart-ache, for how could she rejoice in the sunlight when she thought of the dark black pall that was veiling it from her father's eyes? Wilfred, who came to Cheyne Walk in the afternoon, tried in vain to persuade her to go out with him.

"I am going with father to St. Angela's this evening; I do not care to go out till then," she said.

Wilfred looked the astonishment he could not express. No news could have been more surprising, but he was pleased to hear it. Wilfred did not attach much importance to religion, but he did attach great importance to conventional forms and ceremonies. It was the correct thing for a young lady to attend the services of the Church of England; therefore he was glad that Ida should go to church, for he wished, as we know, that Ida should become more like other girls.

"Will you let me accompany you to church?" he asked with eagerness. "I might be of service to Mr. Nicolari perhaps. He will feel his helplessness more when he is out of doors."

"Oh, thank you; I should be thankful for your help, if you would really care to go with us," Ida replied.

"There is nothing I should like better," said Wilfred, with all sincerity.

Ida's heart was touched by Wilfred's evident desire to serve her father, and as far as possible lighten the burden of his infirmity.

The young man was in truth deeply moved by the sight of his master's helplessness. It stirred his best feelings, and the pity he could not conceal gave a gentle grace to his manner which it had lacked before. Like a son, he waited upon Antonio, guiding his uncertain steps when he walked, and endeavouring if possible by anticipating his wants to render less irksome his sense of loss.

Antonio showed to no hesitation in availing himself of Wilfred's aid. Except his daughter, there was no one dearer to him than his pupil.

"Ah, Wilfred," he said, with a pathetic striving after cheerfulness, as Wilfred came to lead him to the carriage which had been engaged to take them to St. Angela's, "you are the staff of my old age. But for you, I should be wishing now that I had a son, but you do not let me feel the want of one."

"I would gladly be to you as a son, sir; pray command me as freely as if I were," was Wilfred's prompt reply.

"Thank you, Wilfred. I know I can rely on you," said the old man, quietly; "it is a comfort to have you at hand. My blindness makes me a sad burden upon little Ida, but I know you will do all you can to help and cheer her."

"Indeed I will, sir. To serve you and Ida is my greatest happiness."

Antonio made no reply, but he grasped the young fellow's hand with such energy that Wilfred felt sure that the sculptor perceived the fervent meaning he had thrown into his words.

As Nicolari entered the church leaning upon Wilfred's arm, his daughter could see that in this strange place the bitter fact of his blindness smote him with fresh pain. She too was tremulous and agitated. They seated themselves not far from the door.

For a while Ida strove in vain to still her excitement and prepare her mind for the service. The novelty of her position distracted her thoughts. She glanced around the church—a handsome building in the best style of modern Gothic, with fine stained glass windows and richly-wrought carvings. Miss Seabrook's time and thought had not been wasted. The Easter decorations were undeniably lovely. Tall arum lilies and the simpler yet not less lovely lilies of the valley, the graceful blossoms of the narcissus and white hyacinth adorned the chancel and altar, whilst about the area of the church were disposed the more familiar messengers of the spring: primroses, Lent lilies, white violets, and wood anemones. Ida could not fail to appreciate the taste with which the flowers were arranged. She was about to draw her father's attention to them, but happily she checked herself in time, realising with a thrill of horror that she had actually forgotten for a moment her father's bitter loss.

But now the service commenced, and Ida tried to join in it. She had brought her mother's Prayer-book with her, and she studiously followed the course of the service. What would Antonio have felt could he have seen that book in her hands, the book his young wife had used in the days so long gone by when he had been wont to accompany her to church? As it was, the well-known words of the Church of England service, unheard for years, were striking many a chord of memory within him that vibrated painfully.

To Ida, this, the first religious service she had ever attended, brought a sense of disappointment. Yet its accessories were perfect from an æsthetic point of view. The musical portion of the service was faultlessly rendered by a large and well-trained choir, many of whom were professionals. Ida was not unmoved by the beauty and pathos of the Easter anthem. The music and the words echoed in her heart long after. Yet the whole service left in Ida's mind the idea of something formal and mechanical, rather than an expression of the spiritual aspirations and adoring love of human hearts.

It was not Theodore Tregoning but another curate who conducted the service, and he intoned it in harsh, unmelodious accents which seemed to rob the words of their beauty and impressiveness. Ida drew a long breath of relief as she saw Theodore Tregoning ascend the pulpit stairs. Surely his message would be helpful and stimulating.

As he stood in the pulpit and uttered the invocation to the Trinity, Tregoning's face wore an uneasy expression. He announced his text, and Ida leaned forward to listen with eager expectancy. But she was still to experience disappointment. Theodore Tregoning was no preacher. He began to read from the manuscript which lay before him on the desk in a nervous, embarrassed manner which betrayed that he was performing an uncongenial duty. Nor did the matter of his sermon atone for the manner in which it was delivered. The glorious fact which Easter Day commemorates was dwelt upon with a hard, dry dogmatism, illumined by no play of imagination and warmed by no fervour. Ida's heart was chilled as she listened.

"If I had not learned already that Christ is the Living One, such words as these would make me doubt," she said to herself; "and yet I know that his faith is real and strong."

And she ceased to listen, and fell to musing on what the Resurrection had meant to the simple-minded, faithful women who had followed the Lord from place to place and loved to minister to Him. How dark, how bewildering must have been their grief when they knew that He, their Lord, their Teacher, their Friend, whom they had regarded as the Hope of Israel, had died the miserable shameful death of a criminal! What an end to their glad hopes and the sweet comfort they had drawn from His words! But then the surprise that awaited them! What an unimaginable transition from sorrow to joy must Mary Magdalene have experienced when, as she uttered her despairful wail, "They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him," her living Lord drew near to her and the voice she had known and loved so well called her by name. The wonderful, unspeakable relief and rapture the hearts of those women must have known when they learned that He who was dead was alive again, that their Master had not been conquered by His enemies, but had risen victorious over death, and henceforth would abide with them for ever in the power of the new, the Resurrection life, it is beyond all words to describe.

But Ida, amidst her musings, wondered that Theodore Tregoning had caught so little inspiration from the heart-thrilling history. It seemed to her that sculptor or painter, poet or preacher, had here a theme of transcendent interest.

Ida was roused from her thoughts by the rising of the people about her. The short sermon was over, the benediction was pronounced, and the congregation dispersed.

As she was leaving the church, Ida caught sight of Geraldine Seabrook seated beside Mrs. Tregoning in a pew near the pulpit. Geraldine's pretty face was flushed and wore an elated expression.

"Is she satisfied that she did well in persuading Mr. Tregoning to become a clergyman?" Ida wondered. She was glad that she was too far from Miss Seabrook to be recognised by her.

Ida and her father said little as they drove home. Antonio looked weary and depressed, and Ida too was conscious of a new sadness. But if they were silent, Wilfred was not. He had much to say of the way in which the service had been "performed," as he expressed it. The singing pleased him, but he criticised the preacher with some severity. Antonio paid little heed to Wilfred's words, but the young man talked on, satisfied with himself, and content with the monosyllables Ida uttered in response to his remarks.

Later in the evening, when Wilfred had left them and she was alone with her father, Ida asked him what he thought of Mr. Tregoning's preaching.

"I am hardly a judge of preaching," said Antonio, with a smile, "but, to tell you the truth, Ida, I thought it a pitiful exhibition of incapacity. Tregoning seems to me in the position of the square peg in the round hole. Nature did not intend him for an orator. He has neither the imagination nor the poetry requisite to stir the heart of one's fellow-man."

"I cannot think that Mr. Tregoning has no poetry in him," replied Ida.

"To say that he had no poetry in him would be to say that he had not the heart of a man," returned Antonio. "Poetry is human life in its highest and purest essence; every true man has poetry in him, though few have the faculty of expressing it. If I mistake not, the poetry of Tregoning's nature will find expression in deeds rather than in words."

"I believe you are right," said Ida: "it seems to me a great pity that he should be a clergyman."

"A deplorable mistake," said her father. "Why did he yield so readily to his mother's wish? It seems to me that there is a point beyond which it is wrong to comply with the will of one's parents. A man should be master of his fate."

"It was not his mother's wish alone that influenced him," said Ida. Then with a little sigh she added—"Father, have you ever wished that you had power to set right the lives of others? People may not know what mistakes they make, but those who are looking on see them, and if they could just alter things a little, it might be so much better."

"Ah, child, it is well that we cannot meddle in that way," said Nicolari, smiling. "If we thrust our clumsy fingers into the web of Destiny, we should only make it more hopelessly tangled and twisted than it is."

On the following morning, soon after breakfast, to which Antonio still came down at eight o'clock, for he would not allow that his blindness justified him in indulging in slothful habits, the sculptor asked his daughter to lead him to the studio. Since his calamity befell him, he had not spoken of the studio, nor expressed any interest in the work going on there, and Ida now obeyed him with trembling, for she dreaded the effect upon him of a visit to his loved workshop.

There were tears in her eyes as she led him into the room where he had spent so many hours in labour which was delight. It was pitiful to see the old man standing with bowed form and sightless eyes amid the forms of beauty which his genius had created.

"Where is the Psyche?" he asked.

Fritz had commenced to hew the Psyche from a block of fresh marble. Ida led her father to the spot, and he passed his hand over the unfinished work, feeling carefully every line and curve.

"Does it promise well?" he inquired anxiously.

"It will be beautiful, father," said Ida. "The head and neck are complete as far as the rough hewing goes. There is no flaw in this marble."

"Ah!" he said, with a deep sigh. "My hand cannot finish the work I began with such joy. Wilfred must do the pointing of the features."

He stood in silence a few moments, his hand lovingly caressing the cold marble, his countenance expressive of deepest sadness. Presently, with another sigh, he turned away saying: "Where is Wilfred's work? Let me see that through your eyes, my Ida."

"Here is Miss Seabrook's bust," said Ida, placing his hand with lightest touch upon the soft clay.

"It is almost finished, is it not?" asked Antonio.

"Hardly yet," replied Ida. "Miss Seabrook is so irregular in her visits, and gives Wilfred so much trouble when she does come that it has been impossible for him to make rapid progress, but I believe he thinks that one more good sitting is all he requires."

"And how is he succeeding? Is the resemblance striking?"

"He has got the features exactly," said Ida; "the expression is less satisfactory. But you know Miss Seabrook's expression is not easy to catch, because it is constantly changing. She never looks the same for two minutes."

"Yes; I remember that she has one of those mobile, changeful faces that baffle the sculptor's skill. Let me see if I have her features rightly in mind. A low forehead swept by a fringe of golden locks, straight brows, long violet eyes, a short, insignificant nose, a small mouth rather drawn inwards, and a rounded, dimpled chin. Is that Miss Seabrook?"

"It is, indeed," said Ida, in surprise; "how can you remember a face so well?"

"One remembers the things that interest one most," said Nicolari; "faces have always had a fascination for me. It is well that my memory retains them, since I cannot hope to look on human face again."

"Here, father, is Wilfred's Clytie," said Ida, anxious to divert his thoughts; "he has finished it at last, and I really think that it is the best thing he has done."

"I am glad it is good," said Antonio, earnestly. "The lad has power; he can do well when he is not too indolent. I trust there is a great future before him. Oh, how blessed a thing it is to be young! Everything seems possible to the young. But I must not grumble; I have had my day, although it is ended ere my work is done. Oh, Ida, I had dreamed that nobler achievements were before me, and now in my darkness, I am haunted by visions of beauty beyond anything I have yet conceived, but which, alas, I can never mould in clay!"

Ida was silent. Her sympathy was too intense for her to attempt to soothe the bitter anguish which her father's words expressed.

"My work is done," he said after a pause. "Good or ill, whatever it may be worth, it stands forth for the world's judgment, 'This is what Antonio Nicolari had done; more he can never do.' But though this hand can never employ moulding tool again, may there not be a second life for me in the life of my pupil? Wilfred may attain a height of excellence that I have never reached. Perugino did a greater work in training Raphael than in painting his own pictures. It may be that the power I possess is but a spark intended to kindle the fire of an immortal genius in Wilfred. Who knows?"

"Who knows?" repeated Ida, as she pressed her father's hand to her lips. But, though she echoed her father's words, she found it difficult to conceive of Wilfred as a second Raphael.

"Perhaps I may still live for Art," continued Antonio, opening his heart to receive this, the first ray of hope that had penetrated his gloom. "I have striven to love Art purely, but I cannot be sure that there has been no subtle admixture of self-seeking in my devotion to her. Truly did Plato say that self-love is the greatest of all evils. Fatal to all true art is the love of praise, the desire for fame or wealth or aught for self. Perhaps I ought to rejoice that I am now set free from this temptation. Henceforth my love for Art must be an impersonal thing. By aiding and stimulating Wilfred, I shall serve Art for Art's sake only."

The idea that had thus taken hold of Antonio's mind had power to console and sustain. From this time he visited the studio daily, spending many hours there and watching Wilfred's work by means of Ida's eyes with the deepest interest. Wilfred worked well in the days that followed. He became infected with Antonio's enthusiasm, and talked of living for Art, whilst, more convinced than ever of the superiority of his abilities by seeing how his master believed in them, he dreamed of a great and famous future.

The Ormistons were astonished to see how closely their son kept to his work. There was no tempting him now to take a holiday for a trip up the river or to the seaside. The old house in Cheyne Walk had a stronger attraction for him than ever. His mother complained that he was always with the Nicolaris, for Wilfred kept his promise to help Ida take care of her father, and when his day's work was over he would often accompany Nicolari and his daughter for a walk in the cool of the evening or a row up the river.

As the evenings lengthened, and spring ripened into summer, these excursions were pleasant to all three, despite the inevitable sadness with which Ida contemplated her fathers deprivation.

Profiting by Dr. Ward's hint that she might be as eyes to her father, she took pains to describe to him every object of beauty or interest that met her eyes. The sunlight gleaming on the water, the beauty of a sunset cloud, the exquisite gradations or contrasts of colour shown by the fresh foliage, the loveliness of a simple wayside flower, were described to him, till, as memory and imagination worked together to fill in the picture Ida's words suggested, he declared that he could see that of which she spoke.

It seemed to Antonio that he had not known how lovely the world was until a thick black cloud shut from him its beauty. His trial was also making him aware what a treasure he had in his child. Ida had ever been dear to him, he had often called her the sunlight of his life, but now the words had a new and more intense meaning. Hitherto his work had held the first place in his heart; his daughter came second. But now that work was impossible, he had time to contemplate Ida, to realise all that she was to him, and to ponder how he could best provide for her future welfare. He perceived that Ida's character was being moulded into new strength and beauty by the trial which, so strong was her sympathy, was scarcely less bitter to her than to him.

Ida no longer clung to him in childlike dependence; her thoughts and beliefs no longer took their colour from his. The change had commenced with her study of the New Testament and her glad acceptance of its truth. She had thrown aside every mental leading-string then, and dared to think and decide for herself on the most momentous of questions. The coming of sorrow had hastened the development of her womanhood; her father now found her a true, loving woman, strong to resist the shock of calamity, and by the power of her wise and tender sympathy, to support and comfort him.

There was another beside Antonio who watched with growing wonder the change in Ida. Wilfred had long been of opinion that Ida was the most beautiful of girls, but now he saw in her a more touching beauty, a more perfect womanly charm than had before revealed itself.

"How lovely she is!" he would say to himself, as he marked the play of tender, pitiful love on Ida's sweet face as she ministered to her father's helplessness. "How lovely and how good!"

And Ida's glance was full of kindness and her tones gentle when she spoke to Wilfred, for she was very grateful to him for his affectionate devotion to her father. It was a pleasure to her to see the earnestness with which Wilfred now gave himself to his work, and the deference and consideration he displayed towards Antonio. She blamed herself for having so readily judged him to be thoughtless and unreliable. She had wronged him. Her father's affliction was a test which proved Wilfred's real merit. It did not occur to Ida that Wilfred's conduct might not be quite disinterested, or that it was for her sake that Wilfred showed himself so kind and attentive to Antonio.

### CHAPTER XIV.

AN ALARMING SUGGESTION.

MRS. TREGONING'S motherly kindness did not fail Ida in her trouble. Her sympathy was true and deep. Almost every day she came to Cheyne Walk to hear low Nicolari was, and to give Ida any help and comfort she could.

But after that one visit of which Ida cherished grateful recollection, Theodore Tregoning did not come again. Ida wished that he would come. She believed that her father would be glad to receive him now, and unconsciously she was herself longing to have another talk with Tregoning. She fancied that it would be easy to tell him thoughts that were troubling her, but which she had no inclination to confide to Mrs. Tregoning, feeling instinctively that she was not likely to understand them.

"Are you wondering why Theodore does not come to see you?" asked Mrs. Tregoning one day; and the sudden glow of colour which her words brought into Ida's face showed that she had guessed correctly. "He would have been here, but he has more pressing duties. There is a terrible outbreak of small-pox in the miserable district in which St. Angela's Mission Hall is situated, and of course Theo must throw himself in the way of infection. He is doing his best to catch the disease by going daily to the bedsides of the sufferers and ministering to their bodies as well as to their souls. I am very much afraid that he thinks more about their bodies than their souls. He is incurring the ill-will of many of those poor ignorant creatures by the sanitary reforms and precautions against the spread of the epidemic which he insists upon. Theo is afraid of nothing so long as he thinks he is doing his duty."

"How noble of him!" exclaimed Ida, with enthusiasm. "But he is good and noble, I always felt that."

Mrs. Tregoning looked at her with a little wonder in her glance.

"It is easy for you to say so, my dear," she remarked, "but if you were his mother, you would be tempted to wish that he were less noble."

"Oh, you do not mean that," exclaimed Ida; "you cannot mean it. You must be glad and proud that he is so noble and self-forgetful."

"I suppose I ought to be," said Mrs. Tregoning, her face lighting up with pleasure, "but he causes me great anxiety. However, I suppose that such suffering is inseparable from love. You, Ida, know as well us I do that love and sorrow grow intertwined in a woman heart."

"Yes," said Ida, softly, "but there is surely gain in such sorrow. It must be better to love and sorrow, than to live a loveless life."

There was silence for a few moments whilst Mrs. Tregoning pondered Ida's words.

"Theodore is cut off from all his friends; he has not been near Miss Seabrook since he began to visit these cases," said Mrs. Tregoning presently. "She, poor girl, is sadly nervous of small-pox; she thinks it is very wrong of Theodore to expose himself to such risk."

"Wrong!" repeated Ida, in amazement. "How can it be wrong? What does she mean?"

"Oh, she thinks that Theodore's is too valuable a life to be risked. He ought to save it for nobler ends, she says."

"Ought to save his life?" said Ida, in bewilderment. "How could he, and be a follower of the Lord Jesus? Did not the Lord say that he who tried to save his life would lose it? And how can any man's life be too valuable to be risked? I thought that it was a man's highest glory to hazard his life for the sake of duty."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Mrs. Tregoning, "but you see Geraldine has a different idea of what is Theodore's duty. And I believe—of course this is confidential, Ida—that she is as anxious for his safety as I am."

Ida made no reply, and Mrs. Tregoning went on to say—"Geraldine is so nervous about the small-pox that she has resolved to leave town. The disease is spreading beyond the poorer districts, and there have been several cases in South Kensington. One cannot wonder that a pretty girl like Geraldine should shrink from such a malady."

"When does she go?" asked Ida, rather abruptly.

"Next week, I believe. It must be hard for Geraldine to tear herself away from all the gaieties of the season."

"I suppose she is not compelled to go," said Ida. "I hope she will give Wilfred another sitting before she leaves town. He wants but one more to enable him to complete the bust. I had better write to her, perhaps."

"Why not call on her? Would not that be more satisfactory?" said Mrs. Tregoning. "Come with me now; I am going to the Cromwell Road, though not to the Seabrooks'. I fancy Geraldine would hardly care to see me, though there is not the least fear of my carrying infection. Theodore is far too careful on my account."

Ida hesitated, but quickly decided that Mrs. Tregoning's advice was good. Her father was with Wilfred in the studio, and she could be spared for an hour. She ran to tell them of her purpose, and, they approving it, she made haste to accompany Mrs. Tregoning.

Geraldine Seabrook had more than once invited Ida to visit her, but Ida had not availed herself of the carelessly-given invitations. This morning she entered for the first time the banker's mansion in the Cromwell Road. She arrived at an unfashionable hour. Though it was past noon, Miss Seabrook had not long left her couch. She received Ida in her boudoir, where, clad in a morning robe of palest blue trimmed with costly lace, she sat languidly dallying with her chocolate. She had been to a ball on the previous night, and was weary in consequence, but fatigue only gave a more delicate transparency to her complexion, so well set off by the blue gown. She disturbed her indolent pose as little as possible when Ida entered, though she welcomed her with much cordiality.

"Dear Miss Nicolari, this is a pleasure," she said; "how good of you to come at an hour when there is no fear of other visitors. You see I treat you as a friend, and receive you in dishabille."

"Perhaps I ought to apologise for coming so early," said Ida; "my excuse must be that I come on business. Mrs. Tregoning has told me that you are about to leave town, so I have come to beg you to give Mr. Ormiston another sitting before you go away."

"Yes, we leave at the end of next week," said Geraldine. "There is so much sickness about that we think it best to leave home, though it is vexatious to be obliged to do so just at the commencement of the season. It is right to take care of one's health; do you not agree with me?"

"Yes, of course we should be duly careful," said Ida, "but it would not be well for every one to run away at the first sound of danger."

"Certainly not; doctors and nurses and people who have business must stay," said Geraldine. "You will hardly be leaving London just yet, I suppose?"

"I do not expect to leave town at all," said Ida, with a smile. "My father likes his home better than any other place, and now that his sight is gone, he will cling to the familiar surroundings more than ever, I fancy."

"Dear me, what a pity!" said Miss Seabrook. "Cannot you go away without him?"

"Oh, I could never think of leaving him!" exclaimed Ida. "I should be miserable away from my father."

"Would you indeed?" returned Geraldine, her lip curling as she spoke. "I am glad I am not so dependent for my happiness on my father's society. Mamma and I are going to Paris, leaving him at home alone, for he cannot tear himself away from business. But you say you have seen Mrs. Tregoning—how is she?"

"She seems very well; this warm weather suits her," said Ida.

"And Mr. Tregoning? Did she say anything about him?" Geraldine inquired with an eagerness which she felt required an apology, for she added—"Excuse the question; I have heard nothing of the Tregonings for some time. My mother has forbidden me to visit them since we heard of Mr. Tregoning's fanatical devotion to the small-pox patients."

"'Fanatical,' do you call it?" exclaimed Ida, with some warmth. "It seems to me most noble of him to care for those poor people who are so helpless and friendless in their suffering."

"I might think it noble if he were a doctor," said Geraldine, pouting, "but he is a clergyman, and it is his duty to serve the Church."

"Is it not rather to serve Christ?" asked Ida, in a low tone. "I do not know what you mean by serving the Church, but it seems to me that every Christian man, whether a clergyman or not, is bound to serve Christ; and how can we better serve Christ than by ministering to His sick poor?"

"Oh, you do not understand," said Miss Seabrook, with a lofty air of superiority. "What you say is true enough, no doubt, but you speak as one who stands outside our Holy Church, and cannot know all that she is to her children, nor the high demands she makes of them."

Ida was silent. She certainly did not understand Miss Seabrook, and it may be doubted if the young lady had herself any clear conception of the meaning of her words.

There was a pause, and Ida took advantage of it to look about the charming, luxurious little room. The furniture was all in blue and gold, and had probably been chosen, like Miss Seabrook's gown, because it suited her style of beauty. The pictures on the walls, the Dresden China ornaments, the rich embroideries, the choice flowers and ferns, all testified to the presence of cultured taste, with ample means to indulge the same. But Ida's eyes passed from these to a little recess shaded by pale blue curtains of richest texture. Within the recess stood a small table arranged after the fashion of an altar, with candles and vases holding tall lilies on either side, and a crucifix in the centre. Above hung a "Salvator Mundi," similar to that Ida had seen in Theodore Tregoning's room, with a "Mater Dolorosa" on one side and a head of St. John the Evangelist on the other. In front of the table stood a "prie-dieu" chair, with books of devotion ranged upon its little shelf.

Miss Seabrook saw with satisfaction that Ida was observing her "Oratory," as she liked to call the recess. She lay back in her chair with an air of perfect ease, and waited for Ida to speak, studying meanwhile from beneath her long eyelashes the dress of her visitor, or contemplating with pleasure the frillings of lace which adorned the front of her own gown.

But when Ida broke the silence it was not to remark upon the Oratory, as Miss Seabrook expected, but to utter the matter-of-fact words—"You have not yet told me, Miss Seabrook, whether you will be able to give another sitting before you leave town?"

"Oh, the sitting!" said Geraldine, stifling a yawn. "I really do not know. I am so fully engaged up to the day of my departure that I fear I cannot manage it."

"That is a pity, for Mr. Ormiston cannot well finish the bust without seeing you again, and you wish to have it as soon as possible," said Ida. "Shall you be away long?"

"I do not know," said Geraldine, languidly; "perhaps we shall not return till late in the autumn. Well, I will see what I can do for Mr. Ormiston."

So saying, she struck a little gong which stood on the table beside her. Her maid appeared in response to the summons.

"Bring me my tablets, Dean," said the young lady.

When the ivory tablets were brought to her, she studied them deliberately for a few minutes. "I have engagements for every day, and almost every hour," she said at last, "but perhaps I could get to the studio on Wednesday afternoon. I will not promise, however."

"I will tell Mr. Ormiston that you will come at that time, if possible," said Ida, rising.

"Yes," said Geraldine, "but pray, Miss Nicolari, do not think of going yet."

"Thank you, I must go," said Ida. "I do not like to leave my father for long."

"Will you give my farewells to Mrs. Tregoning and her son if you should see them?" said Geraldine, observing Ida closely. "But of course you do not go there now; you would not be less careful than I am to avoid any chance of taking small-pox."

"Oh, I am not afraid of that," said Ida, "but I have little time for paying visits now, and am not likely to go to Mrs. Tregoning's."

"You should not go there indeed," said Geraldine, earnestly; "you ought to guard against infection for your father's sake if not for your own. It is such a terrible disease. I can conceive of no greater calamity befalling me than to suffer from it."

"I think my father's affliction is a sorer trial," said Ida.

"Well, yes, perhaps," said Geraldine, dubiously, "but pray take warning and keep out of the way of the Tregonings."

With these words ringing in her ears and causing her some amusement, Ida quitted the house. Curiously it happened that she had hardly walked a dozen yards are she met Theodore Tregoning.

He bowed, and was passing by, but on second thoughts, he halted, and stepping back to the edge of the pavement said:

"I am sorry to appear unfriendly, Miss Nicolari, but the fact is I ought to be labelled 'dangerous' just now."

"I know," said Ida, smiling; "Mrs. Tregoning has told me of the new duties you have taken upon yourself, and Miss Seabrook, whom I have just left, has warned me against you, so you see I am on my guard."

"Miss Seabrook! Have you seen her?" he exclaimed, a flash of keen interest coming into his eyes. "How is she?"

"She is very well, I believe," said Ida. "You know, I suppose, that she is about to leave town."

"Yes, I know," he said, his face changing as he spoke; "if you are not afraid, Miss Nicolari, I will walk a few steps with you. There is really no fear of infection in the open air."

"I am not at all afraid," said Ida; "I am not nervous like Miss Seabrook."

She knew that it was not desire for her society that kept him by her side. He wanted to hear all she could tell him concerning Miss Seabrook.

"Yes, she is very nervous," he said gently. "Her nature is so sensitive, so finely strung, that the thought of this loathsome malady affects her most acutely. I am glad she is going away; it is best for her."

"She is certainly highly sensitive and full of feeling where self is concerned," thought Ida, and then she reproached herself for the uncharitable reflection.

"I suppose Miss Seabrook did not tell you how long she would be away," remarked Theodore.

"She is not certain, but thinks it probable she will not return home till late in the autumn," replied Ida.

Tregoning's face became graver as he heard this.

"Miss Seabrook begged me to give her farewells to you and to Mrs. Tregoning, if I should happen to see you," said Ida.

The look of her companion brightened considerably.

"Did she? How kind of her!" he said. "I knew that she was not forgetful of us. How I wish I could see her to say good-bye! But it must not be. I would not for the world expose her to the least danger or to the least fear. Will you tell her how I wished to see her, if you have an opportunity?"

Ida readily gave the conditional promise, and Theodore thanked her with the utmost warmth. They walked on without speaking for some minutes.

Ida knew that he wished to hear more about Miss Seabrook, but she was at a loss what to say of her, so she began to question him about his poor sick people. He answered her questions fully, and Ida listened with painful interest to his account of the wretched homes he had visited, and the squalor and ignorance by which the sufferings of the sick were heightened.

"I wish I could do something to help them," she said wistfully; "I lead such an easy life, and know so little of the poor." Then with a sudden impulse she drew her purse from her pocket.

"Mr. Tregoning, do let me give you some money for your poor people."

"Stay, stay—not so much," he cried, as she poured gold and silver, all that the purse contained, into his hand.

"Yes, yes, you must take it," she said; "father always gives me more money than I want, and you will know how to use it to the best purpose."

"You are very good," Tregoning said warmly. "I shall be at no loss how to use this. I know many convalescents who are sorely in need of nourishing food to enable them to make a good recovery."

"Do let me know when more is needed," said Ida, earnestly; "I should be so glad to help in any way, for I feel that I have never done my duty towards the poor. My father has lived for art, and I have lived for my father, forgetful of the many who live shut out from all beauty and joy."

Her face was aglow with feeling as she spoke, and Tregoning was struck anew with its beauty. There was admiration in his glance as he thanked her and said good-bye.

Entering the studio on her return home, Ida found her father and Wilfred engaged in earnest conversation which ceased, however, as soon as they were aware of her presence. Wilfred had laid down his modelling tools in order to talk, and as he sat with his back to his work, it was evident that that was not the subject of discussion. Ida wondered a little what it could be that had brought such a serious look to Wilfred's face.

"So you have returned, my child," said Nicolari, with more tenderness than usual in his tones; "did you find Miss Seabrook at home?"

"Yes, I saw her," said Ida.

"And what did she say about the sitting?" asked Wilfred.

"She will try to come on Wednesday afternoon," said Ida, "but I would not advise you to count on it, Will, for it is very doubtful if she comes. Miss Seabrook is such a fashionable lady that she has a host of engagements to keep ere she leaves town next week."

"Surely she will come if she cares about the bust," said Wilfred. "She was so eager about it at first, and wanted me to do it in next to no time."

"I am afraid her eagerness has worn off," said Ida, "for she took the matter very coolly to-day."

With that Ida quitted the studio, leaving the two men free to continue the talk her arrival had interrupted.

Ida observed that her father was very quiet and thoughtful during the remainder of the day, but she did not suspect that she was the burden of his thoughts.

In the evening, she was sitting at her piano playing to him some of the "Songs without Words." Ida had practised diligently of late, in the hope that by the aid of her music, she might soothe some of her father's weary hours. Antonio did not fail to appreciate his daughter's endeavours. She was not a brilliant musician, but she had a delicate touch, and her playing was full of expression.

To-night, however, Antonio paid little heed to what Ida was playing. Her music served only as an accompaniment to the hopes and aspirations kindling within him. As she struck the last chord of one of the most exquisite melodies, he said:

"Thank you, child, that will do now. Come to me, I want to have a talk with you."

Ida was not offended at the scant thanks rendered for her performance. She closed the piano, and approaching her father seated herself by his side.

"You are eighteen years old, my Ida," he said.

"Yes, I was eighteen last March," she replied, wondering why he reminded her of her age.

"Ah! Your mother was five-and-twenty when I married her, but perhaps you are as mature at eighteen as she was at twenty-five. Age is not a matter of years, but of mind and experience."

Ida listened quietly. She had no notion to what these remarks tended. Her father seemed to have difficulty in uttering what he wished to say to her.

There was a pause ere he said, "I suppose you know, Ida, that Wilfred is very much attached to you?"

The girl's eyes opened wide as she said, "Why, of course, father. Wilfred and I have always been great friends. We have been like brother and sister ever since we were little children."

"But Wilfred does not look upon you as a sister now," said Antonio, gravely; "he has confessed to me to-day that it is his greatest desire to have you for his wife."

"Father!" was all Ida could say. She was as much amazed as if he had announced an unheard-of thing. Marie's hints had failed to prepare Ida for this. She had never attached any importance to her old nurse's sayings concerning Wilfred and herself. It seemed to her out of the question that she and Wilfred could ever sustain any closer relation than the old familiar one which she held dear.

"Is it a surprise to you?" asked Antonio. "To me it seems only natural. It could not be expected that brotherly and sisterly relation would continue after you had each outgrown childhood."

"Oh, why not?" faltered Ida. "Wilfred is still to me as a brother, and I do not want to think of anything else."

"But you must think of the future," said her father; "there is nothing better for a woman than a happy married life. You will realise this some day, if you do not now."

"Oh, father, I want no life but my life with you," cried Ida, passionately; "how could I leave you for any husband?"

"Happily, in this case you are not asked to leave me," said Antonio; "Wilfred's work lies here, and it would be well for him to make this house his home. He has said that he has no wish to take you from me, but would be content for us all to live together. You must see, Ida, that this arrangement would be very advantageous to his work, for his home-life at present affords many distractions."

Antonio paused, as if expecting Ida to speak, but she said nothing.

"Remember, child," he continued, "that my life will soon come to an end. I cannot think that I have long to live, and but for your sake I do not desire a protracted existence. It would be a comfort to leave you in the care of a good husband."

Could Nicolari have seen his daughter's countenance, he would probably have said less. Ida was very pale, and her eyes had a look of fear.

"Father," she asked presently in a low voice, "do you indeed wish this? Would you be glad for me to marry Wilfred?"

"Yes, it would give me great pleasure," he said deliberately; "Wilfred is dear to me as a son, and his constant presence would be to me a solace and support. What is more, I believe that I have power to influence his work and stimulate him to nobler exertions. I am ambitious for my pupil. And Wilfred has made a suggestion which gives me pleasure, though I fear it is a selfish pleasure. He proposes that he should take my name, and call himself Wilfred Nicolari Ormiston so that my name will still be kept before the world. What do you think of it, Ida?"

"It seems to me that Wilfred would benefit most by that arrangement," said Ida. "Your name will do more for him than his can do for you."

"I do not want him to do anything for me," said Antonio, almost impatiently; "you are mistaken, if you doubt that Wilfred has genius. He will be a famous sculptor some day. Are you not willing to help him in his life-work? You too have the soul of an artist. Would you not be proud to be the daughter of one sculptor and the wife of another?"

Ida's hands were raised in mute protest against his words. "I think it is you who are mistaken, father," she ventured to say in gentlest tones; "you over-estimate Wilfred's skill. He is no genius; he might become a clever sculptor, no doubt, if he would, but I fear he will never have sufficient perseverance to make the most of his abilities."

"You wrong him," said Antonio, speaking with warmth unusual to him. "You forget how Wilfred has worked of late, and he would work better if you would set his heart at ease, and he were united to us. I wonder that you hesitate, Ida; I thought you loved Wilfred."

"I do love him," said Ida, tears starting, to her eyes. "I love him as a brother, a friend. I will marry him, father, if you think that I ought, but I don't know that I feel towards him as I should."

Antonio was disturbed to hear her faltering, tremulous tones. He was as far from understanding her as she was from understanding herself, but he began to fear that he had been betrayed into too vehement an expression of his wishes, and had not shown due regard for her feelings.

"This has taken you by surprise, dear," he said more gently, "and I daresay you feel in doubt how to respond. You must think it over. I cannot wish you to marry Wilfred against your will."

"Thank you," said Ida, tremulously; "I should be glad to do what would make you happy. Father, do you think that I love Wilfred as my mother loved you?"

"How can I tell?" he asked, startled by the question. "Your mother's girlhood was not like yours. You have been brought up very differently from most girls, and the common experiences of womanhood come to you as a surprise. But surely there can be no one whom you love better than Wilfred. You have hardly seen any one else indeed, whom one could conceive of as a possible husband for you."

"No, there can be no one else," said Ida.

"Well, don't let this distress you, dear," said Antonio, still troubled at the sorrow he detected in her voice. "I wish only your happiness; you may be sure of that."

"I am sure of it," she said, bending forward to kiss him, "and I care only for your happiness."

"Ah, child," he said sadly, "happiness is no longer possible for me. That word has meaning only for the young. It is in your power to make Wilfred happy, but not me."

Ida had risen, and with these sad words sounding in her ears she passed quickly from the room, unable longer to command outward composure amid the struggle of contending emotions.

### CHAPTER XV.

BETROTHED.

"IF only you would speak, Miss Ida, and say what ails you, I should know what to do, but to see you look so pale and lifeless, with your eyes staring before you and yet seeing nothing, is more than I know how to bear."

Thus spoke Marie at the end of the day, as she stood brushing her young lady's long dark hair. Ida would sometimes have been glad to dispense with Marie's attendance, but her nurse could seldom be persuaded to give up the duties she loved. Her words roused Ida from absorbing thought.

"Am I pale, Marie?" she said, trying to smile. "Surely that is nothing unusual; I could never please you with my colour."

"No, you were never rosy," said Marie. "But it is not the paleness only; you look so sad and weary, Miss Ida. It goes to my heart to see you looking like that."

"I am weary," said Ida, with a sigh, "weary of thinking. Oh, I wish I knew how I ought to act! Life is so perplexing. Marie, I never longed for my mother as I do now. It seems to me that she would understand."

"Ay, surely," said Marie, full of sympathy. "There's no one like a mother. I would do anything for you, Ida, my sweet lamb, but I can't take the place of a mother. Still, if you would tell me what troubles you, maybe it would lighten your heart just to speak of it."

"You are very good, Marie," said Ida, grasping her nurse's arm and resting her head against it; "I would tell you if I could."

"Bless you, my angel!" responded Marie, fervently. After a minute she added, "There's Mrs. Tregoning, Miss Ida—she loves you dearly—maybe you could tell her your trouble, if you can't tell it to me."

Ida made no reply. She felt that it would be as difficult to confide in Mrs. Tregoning as in Marie. She roused herself and shook back her hair, as a sign to Marie to continue her brushing.

"Marie," she said presently, speaking in a brighter tone, "I have been thinking about the time when you were married. Did you find it easy to make up your mind? Were you always sure that you loved Fritz better than any one else?"

"Dear me, no," said Marie, with a laugh; "I was not sure that I loved him at all, and as for loving him better than any one else, I always said that I loved you best, and so I did, Miss Ida. I told Fritz I would not leave you for any one; it was the master's doing that we got married. He showed me that it would be good thing for Fritz, and he arranged that Fritz should come and live here, so that I need not leave you."

"How strange! I had no idea that father was such a match-maker," said Ida. "But you must have loved Fritz, or you would not have consented."

"I don't know as I did, Miss Ida, but I was sorry for the poor creature, for I saw that he wanted some one to look after him, and I knew that his heart was set upon it, and he'd worry himself ill if I did not say 'yes,' so I just took and married him out of pity."

Troubled as she was, Ida could not help laughing at Marie's words.

"So you married him out of pity," she said. "Do many women marry men out of pity, I wonder?"

"Surely, or there would not be many marriages," said Marie. "It can't be for the sake of the men, when one sees what troublesome beings they are—though, to be sure, it is after marriage that we learn that best."

Ida smiled, but presently her face grew grave as she pondered Marie's words. Was it meant that marriage should be thus a voluntary sacrifice of one's personal inclinations for the sake of another's good, to be made even when the love was lacking which would render this sacrifice a holy and blessed thing?

Marie would have been astonished, could she have known how much meaning Ida had put into her lightly-spoken words.

On the following day Ida, though hardly conscious of her purpose, avoided Wilfred's presence as much as possible. She was especially anxious to avoid being alone with him, and for two or three days she succeeded in so doing, and gave Wilfred no chance of a confidential talk with her. She did not mean to make any change in her manner towards him, but he, observing her closely, was quick to detect a difference. There was a shyness in her demeanour, her glances did not meet his with the old freedom, and she had little to say in response to his words, leaving her father to sustain the conversation.

Wilfred did not interpret this change in a manner unfavourable to his hopes. He was not the man to make a diffident lover; he rather took encouragement from Ida's shrinking manner. It showed she was conscious that they no longer stood on the old footing. He felt pretty secure of winning Ida, for he judged it well-nigh impossible that she could prefer any one to himself. He guessed that Ida was trying to avoid him, and he watched the more eagerly for a chance of speaking to her. As chance did not favour him, Wilfred at last made an opportunity in a way that was very characteristic.

It was Wednesday afternoon. Ida was sitting her father in the drawing-room. She had drawn his armchair into the bay-window, and seated on the window-seat at his elbow, she was engaged in describing to him the gay scene the river presented on this lovely afternoon in early June. It was vexatious that Anne should enter with the message—"If you please, miss, Mr. Ormiston would be glad if you could come to the studio whilst Miss Seabrook is there."

"Oh, has Miss Seabrook come?" exclaimed Ida.

But Anne, obedient to the instructions she had received, disappeared as soon as she had delivered the message.

"Anne might have waited to hear what I had to say," remarked Ida; "she gets more and more incomprehensible in her ways. Marie is losing all patience with her. Well, I am glad Miss Seabrook has come, but I wish I need not go to her."

"I think you had better go, dear," said her father, gently; "she will expect to see you, as you have always been present at the sittings."

Ida rose at once. "I dare say she will not stay very long," she said as she quitted the room.

What was her astonishment, on entering the studio, to find Wilfred alone!

"Why, where is Miss Seabrook?" she asked. "Anne told me that she was here."

"Miss Seabrook has not yet come, but I expect her every minute," said Wilfred, coolly. "You must have misunderstood Anne. I did not tell her to say that Miss Seabrook was here."

Then Ida perceived the trap that had been laid for her, and she naturally felt some indignation.

"You might have waited till Miss Seabrook came before you sent for me," she said; "you know that I do not like to leave my father any more than I can help."

"Forgive me, Ida," said Wilfred, penitently; "I must confess that I sent for you because I am very anxious to speak to you alone."

"I should have been obliged to you, Wilfred, if you had waited for a convenient opportunity," said Ida, loftily. "Will not some other time do? I should be glad to return to my father now."

"No, another time will not do," said Wilfred, firmly; "I can bear suspense no longer, Ida. You must know what it is I wish to speak to you about."

Ida knew but too well what it was. She longed for power to avert what was coming. She had paused on her way to the door, and she stood waiting, weak and tremulous, her heart beating painfully.

"You know," he repeated, as she did not speak; "your father has told you what I wish."

"Yes, I know," faltered Ida, "but oh, Wilfred, I wish you did not care for me in that way. I wish you would be my brother as you have always been."

"That is no longer possible," he said. "Ida, you would make me miserable if you were to refuse me, I should be good for nothing then; my whole life would be ruined."

"No, no, you must not say that; it is wrong of you, Wilfred!" cried Ida. "You have your work to live for. The value of your life does not depend on me."

"But it does," urged Wilfred, adopting the line of argument which he knew would have most influence over Ida. "If you reject me, I shall throw up my work and renounce all thought of being a sculptor. You cannot suppose that I could live on here, seeing you every day, if you refused to make me happy. It would be a torture to me. No, I should go abroad and seek a new career."

"Oh, Wilfred!" cried Ida, imploringly, tears starting to her eyes, "I wish you would not speak so; you make me very unhappy. It would break my father's heart if you gave up being a sculptor."

"I cannot help that," said Wilfred, with what seemed to her cruel hardness of tone. But the next minute, his manner softened, and he turned to her saying tenderly:

"Oh, Ida, darling, have you no feeling for me? Is it nothing to you that my heart should be broken and my life spoiled? You used to be kinder to me; I used to hope that you loved me."

"I always have loved you," said Ida, simply, "but I never dreamed of this. I can't bear to think of being married. I want to live for my father; I care for nothing but to make him happy."

"Then you will not refuse to think of our marriage, Ida, for that would make him happy; he told me so. And I could better help you to take care of him then. It would be my delight to serve him. I would be to him all that the most loving son could be."

Ida was silent. Wilfred's words had touched her keenly. For her father's sake she would venture anything. To secure his happiness, she would even dare to risk her own.

Wilfred saw the advantage he had gained, and was quick to profit by it.

"Ida," he whispered, "let it be so; let us together watch over your father and take tenderest care of him in his blindness."

Ida put her hand into his. "If you will," she said in a very low voice. "I hope I am doing right. It is for his sake, because I think it will make him happy. You will not mind my thinking most of him, Wilfred? I shall always love my father better than any one else."

Wilfred was hardly satisfied—what lover would have been with such an acceptance of his love? But he felt confident that Antonio was his sole rival. Ida loved him, of that he had no doubt, and her love would grow warmer and deeper when she was his wife. Nicolari was an old man. He had spoken of his death to Wilfred as an event which could not be distant, and since then it had seemed to Wilfred that his master was failing rapidly, and showed from week to week fresh signs of feebleness. With no selfish wish that Nicolari's decline might be hastened, Wilfred could not help reminding himself that he need not grudge her father the first place in Ida's heart, since the bond between them must so soon be broken. When Antonio was no more, Ida must lean for her happiness on her husband's love, and how sweet it would be to cherish so lovely a young wife! So Wilfred caught at Ida's reluctant consent.

"Darling, I cannot wish you to care less for your father," he said tenderly. "Only let me have a share in your love—that is all I ask. We shall be very happy, Ida, I am sure of that."

"I hope so," she said falteringly; "I will try to please you, Wilfred, and we will both try to make father as happy as is possible."

"You cannot fail to please me," he said warmly; "you do not know how I love you. Come, you will give me a kiss?"

Simply and unblushingly Ida lifted her lips to his. It did not seem long since the childish days when kisses had been matters of course between them. The lips were cold as Wilfred kissed them, and the hand he had retained in his was cold too.

Ida's manner disappointed him. He was glad that he had won her, but his success did not yield him the rapture it should have done. They stood in silence for a few moments, Ida ill at ease and desirous that Wilfred should release her hand, whilst he felt unable to utter the words he should have said.

"May I go now?" asked Ida, at length. "I had better go back to father."

"I will come with you," said Wilfred, "and we will tell him our news; he will be so glad to hear it."

"Yes, he will be glad," said Ida; and they went upstairs together.

### CHAPTER XVI.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

MISS SEABROOK did not come that afternoon, and her bust had to be set aside to await her pleasure for its completion. Wilfred was not permitted to make his engagement an excuse for any relaxation from toil. Antonio had appeared very pleased to know that Wilfred and Ida were betrothed, but when he had expressed his sanction and uttered tender wishes for their future, he intimated to Wilfred that he had better return to the studio and work whilst the light lasted. Wilfred went reluctantly enough, and in the days that followed, he thought it hard that neither Ida nor her father seemed to wish for more of his company than they had been wont to enjoy.

Wilfred was engaged upon work which taxed his skill to the utmost; nothing less than giving the final touches to the marble Psyche. He strove hard to do justice to his master's fine conception, and the result was a work of art which attested the genius of Antonio Nicolari. The exquisite ethereal grace of the delicately moulded figure, the pure beauty of the upturned face, with its rapt, adoring gaze, the lovely hands and arms, the perfection which marked every detail, were such as only power of the highest order could produce.

Ida would not listen to Wilfred when he told her that the beauty of the statue did not equal the beauty of the original. Such a speech was excusable from a lover, but she knew well that though the features were modelled from her own, her father had idealised the countenance and glorified it with a beauty not of earth. As she looked at it, Ida could not help weeping to think that this, her father's greatest work, must be his last.

And there were tears in Antonio's eyes as he laid his trembling hand on the statue which he could not see, and listened to the eager, faltering tones in which Ida tried to tell him how beautiful it was. Bitter, beyond words to express, was his sense of loss as he stood there in his blindness, powerless to effect another stroke with chisel. Oh for one moment of sight in which to gaze on his loved work!

"No, no, Ida, it is not perfect," he said sorrowfully. "If I could but look on it, I should see something to alter or to add, some touch that is needed to complete the harmony or more fully develop the meaning of the work. But it is vain to think of it. I am powerless now."

The anguish in his tones pierced Ida's heart. It was seldom such words escaped him. The artists and connoisseurs who flocked to the studio when it was known that a fresh masterpiece was on view there, were amazed to see in what calm, philosophic fashion Antonio Nicolari endured his affliction.

"I cannot understand Nicolari," said a young artist to a friend, as they were leaving the sculptor's house. "Such an enthusiast for work as he was, sparing himself neither night nor day, I should have thought this misfortune would have driven him half mad, but he seems as resigned to sit in darkness as if he had been blind from his birth. I could not have believed that he would take the thing so tamely."

"Tamely, do you call it?" returned the other, an older and more experienced man. "To me there is something inexpressibly grand in Nicolari's resignation. I always thought him allied in spirit to the old Greek heroes, and now I am sure that he is. Only a brave heroic spirit is capable of such resignation, such grand self-compression. I tell you, young man, it takes courage of the highest kind to endure a trial like Nicolari's without breaking into wild rebellion against fate. It is touching to see how Nicolari withdraws his thoughts and hopes from self, and concentrates them on Ormiston's future."

"What do you think of Ormiston's work?" inquired the younger man. "Will he ever do anything worth doing?"

"I dare not prophesy," was the reply. "Ormiston is clever, some of his things are very well conceived, but I fear he's too lazy, too unstable, to do anything great."

"You think he lacks the capacity for taking infinite pains which is said to constitute genius?"

"Yes, and he is too well off. An easy, luxurious life rarely produces work or the best kind. Art is spiritual, and 'the flesh lusteth against the spirit.' Plain living and high thinking may not be inseparable, but it is certain that they consort well."

One day Ida took Mrs. Tregoning into the studio to see the Psyche. She admired it warmly. "I know little of Art, and am not in the least fitted to pronounce upon sculpture," she said, "but I see, I feel, that this is perfect. Even a child would be conscious of its loveliness. I wish Theodore could see it. Would you be afraid for him to come?"

"Afraid?" repeated Ida, looking puzzled. "Oh, for fear of infection, you mean. I should not be in the least afraid of that, for I know he would take every precaution. Do tell him that we should be happy to see him."

"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Tregoning. "But now will you run and put on your hat? For your father says that he will spare you to me for an hour. I am going to drive to Westminster, and should be glad of your company. If you have not yet seen your father's sculpture of the Good Shepherd, we might look into St. Cuthbert's as we pass."

"Oh, I should be glad to do so," said Ida, eagerly; "I have been longing to see that sculpture, but have had no opportunity of getting so far."

In a few minutes, Ida was ready, and they drove from the house.

"I have a word to say to you, Ida, now that we are alone," said Mrs. Tregoning. "Your father has told me of your engagement. I hope you will be very happy, dear. No friend cares more for your happiness than I do, both for your own and for your mother's sake."

A hot flush dyed the girl's cheeks as she became aware to what Mrs. Tregoning was alluding, but ere that lady's words came to an end, the colour had faded, and Ida's face was remarkably pale.

"You are very kind," she said tremulously.

"I know so little of Mr. Ormiston that I cannot judge whether he is worthy of you," continued Mrs. Tregoning, "but your father tells me he is very clever, and will be a great sculptor some day, so I suppose, since your father seems pleased, that it must be a matter for congratulation. You care a great deal for him, of course, Ida?"

"Yes," faltered Ida, "Wilfred is very kind. I have known him all my life, and I have always been fond of him."

"Then it has been an understood thing for some time, I suppose," said Mrs. Tregoning. "You might have given me a hint of it, Ida. As your mother's friend, could you not have trusted me?"

"I would have told you had there been anything to tell," replied Ida, with deepening confusion, "but I did not know—it came so suddenly."

"Oh, well, I can forgive you," said Mrs. Tregoning, smiling, and imagining that Ida's confusion could have but one explanation. Yet, as she observed the girl, she felt some wonder. What a weary look Ida's young face wore!—Not at all the look of one into whose life a new joy had come.

They alighted at the old-fashioned Church of St. Cuthbert, standing in a back street, and forsaken now by the fashionable world which in former times had gone in state to worship there. Mrs. Tregoning led Ida to a wall at the left of the chancel, from which stood out the bas-relief of the Good Shepherd.

For some minutes Ida gazed on it without saying a word, though her face showed that she was greatly moved. Mrs. Tregoning left her, and strolled away to another part of the church. When she came back, Ida was kneeling in one of the pews, with her face hidden in her hands, and her friend turned away again. Presently, as she lingered at the end of the church, reading the mural tablets or examining the quaint carvings, she saw Ida coming towards her.

"Well, Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning as they met, "what do you think of it?"

"It is beautiful," said the girl, with tears in her eyes. "Come and look at it. Oh, surely he believed in the Good Shepherd when he did that. It is impossible to think otherwise."

"Yes, he must have felt differently when he worked at that," said Mrs. Tregoning; "your mother was living then, and her influence over him was strong. Oh, it is indeed beautiful!"

It was; and it was more than beautiful. The old, old subject, the Shepherd bearing in His arms the sheep which had been lost, was imaged not only with the best skill the sculptor's hand could command, but with all the power of mind and heart that he could bring to bear on it. The mingling of majesty and tenderness, of love and strength, in the face divinely grand yet truly human, could not fail to touch every Christian heart. It seemed to Ida, as she noted the care with which every detail was wrought, the beauty of the hands which clasped the sheep, and the love and pity expressed by form and attitude as well as by the features of the Shepherd, that her father in working at this must have been inspired by the glory of that truth, the first we teach to little children, for it has power to comfort their childish sorrows and allay their childish fears, and that to which the spirit clings at the last as it passes through the valley of the shadow of death—the love of the Good Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep.

"Oh!" said Ida, turning suddenly to Mrs. Tregoning. "This is beyond comparison the finest thing my father has ever done."

"I think it the best I have seen," replied Mrs. Tregoning, "but you know I am no judge."

Ida would fain have lingered longer in the church. She was surprised when Mrs. Tregoning told her how late it was getting.

"Indeed it is time to go," she exclaimed; "father will wonder what has become of me."

He had wondered why she was gone so long, but he made no complaint when she came in, though the time had been tedious as he awaited her return.

"Father, I am sorry to be so late," said his daughter, gently, putting her arm about his neck as she bent to kiss him. "Mrs. Tregoning has taken me to St. Cuthbert's Church, and I have seen your sculpture of the Good Shepherd. It was that kept me so long."

"Ah, have you seen that?" he replied, surprise and some keener emotion thrilling his voice as he spoke. "What led you to go there?"

"Mrs. Tregoning wished me to see it; she remembered my mother showing it to her years ago. I wish I had known of it before—it is so lovely. Why did you never tell me it was there?"

Antonio did not reply to that question. "So you call it lovely," he said.

"Most lovely," said Ida, warmly. "Father, it is the grandest thing you have ever done. It is far above the Psyche."

"No, no, it cannot be!" he cried, with pain in his voice. "Why, it is twenty years since I did that. Do you mean to tell me that I have made no progress, that I have attained to nothing higher during those years?"

"I do not mean that," said Ida; "you may have gained in skill, in 'technique,' but, father, you have conceived nothing nobler than the Good Shepherd. Surely you must have believed in Jesus when you wrought that sculpture?"

"I thought so, perhaps," said Antonio, his voice betraying that he was deeply moved, "but it was your mother's faith, not mine, which inspired that work. I caught somewhat of her enthusiasm, I suppose. She thought it my greatest work, and you think like her because you too believe in Christianity. Am I not right, Ida?"

"Yes, father," she answered with deep emotion, "I too desire to be a Christian, a follower of Christ. Oh, it was not my mother's faith only, you must have believed in Christ when you did that work. You who have always taught me that Goodness is the highest Beauty, and that we ought to seek it wherever it may be found, you must have felt the beauty of that sublime life, and the grandeur of that death of willing self-sacrifice."

He was silent, and after a pause Ida went on:

"Father, the ideal beauty for which we yearn in our noblest moments is no vain dream; it lives, it breathes, it shines forth in the face of Jesus Christ. He is altogether lovely. All we have hoped or dreamed of good, of power, of beauty is found in Him, and more than all. Ah, if you could see His beauty as I see it, and I see it but imperfectly!"

Antonio did not reply immediately. He sat with his grey head resting on his hand and his eyes closed, apparently unmoved by his daughter's fervent words, but his firm lips had quivered for a moment as she spoke, and now he was saying to himself, "It might be her mother's voice—just such words as she used to say. Can it be that religious emotion is transmitted from mother to child?"

"Child," he said at last, and his tone was grave and even solemn; "you speak with the joy of one who has found new truth. It may be that the vision you see is indeed the vision of God. I do not know; my eyes are sealed from that vision. But what to you seems so new and wonderful is no new thing to me. I have always said that the life of the Founder of Christianity was most noble, and His ethics pure. In my early life, I was taught all the Christian doctrines, and yet—I am not a Christian."

"I know little of the doctrines," said Ida, simply—"I do not want to talk of them, but—oh, father, I do want you to see the Man—the Man Christ Jesus!"

"But I am blind," he replied, with the saddest meaning in his play upon the word.

"Jesus gives sight to the blind," said Ida. Then with a swift impulse, she added—"Father, you say that the life is noble, I wish you would let me read you some of the records of that life. You do not know how beautiful they are."

"You shall read me whatever you please, dear child," said her father, tenderly. "But the Gospels are not new to me; you must not expect that they will influence me as they do you."

Ida was satisfied that he was willing to hear them. She trusted that the simple words of truth would not be without their power over him. That very evening she began to read the Gospel of St. John to her father.

Some days later Theodore Tregoning appeared at Cheyne Walk. His visit was to the studio, but when he had seen and admired the sculptor's last work, Wilfred brought him upstairs to the drawing-room, where were Antonio and Ida. The old man had a warm welcome for Tregoning, whom he held in high esteem. For a while they discussed the Psyche, and from that the talk turned on Art in general.

"I have been asking Mr. Ormiston what will be the subject of his next work," said Tregoning, "but he does not seem quite to know."

"I have almost made up my mind to try the subject you, sir, suggested to me the other day," said Wilfred, turning to Antonio—"Œdipus and Antigone, if you and Ida would sit for me."

Antonio shook his head and smiled sadly. "That was but a jest, Wilfred, and a sorry jest. Neither Ida nor I are stoical enough so to make profit of our misfortune. But if you wish to represent the calamity of blindness, why not make a sculpture showing Jesus in the act of anointing the eyes of the blind man with clay? However we may judge of the New Testament narratives, it is certain that they give to Art many a heart-stirring theme."

Wilfred stared at his master, amazed to hear from him such words as these. Ida's lips were trembling, but a glad light had come into her eyes. It was Tregoning who replied to the remark.

"That is true indeed," he said. "It seems to me that Art must ever draw its highest inspiration from religion. I am reminded of what Charles Kingsley says in one of his books—'Art is never Art till it is more than Art; the Finite exists as a body of the Infinite, and the man of genius must first know the Infinite, unless, he wishes to become, not a poet, but a maker of idols.'"

Ida gave him a smile of ready sympathy. He had lent her several of Charles Kingsley's works, and she knew in what high admiration he held this writer as a "practical man" and a man of science, who had exerted himself strenuously in the cause of sanitary reform, and dared to uphold "muscular Christianity."

Antonio appeared to be disturbed by the words Tregoning had quoted. "A maker of idols," he murmured to himself; "a maker of idols!"

### CHAPTER XVII.

AN EVENING AT MRS. ORMISTON'S.

THE months of June, July, and August were past. London was supposed to be empty, but there were still a few people left in town, and amongst them were Nicolari and his daughter and Mrs. Tregoning and her son. Theodore Tregoning was not to be persuaded to seek a change whilst there were still many sick and suffering ones in the district committed to his care. Mrs. Tregoning had long talked of going to the seaside as soon as her son could get away, but from week to week her wish had to be held in abeyance.

There was another lady who was being kept in town against her will, the mother of Wilfred Ormiston. Mrs. Ormiston imagined that ladyhood was synonymous with helplessness, and that she showed refined feeling by refusing ever to go from home without masculine escort. She decided that it was impossible that she and the one unmarried daughter who remained with her should go to the seaside unless papa or Wilfred could accompany them, so, as it happened this year that an unusual pressure of business would keep Mr. Ormiston senior in town till the late autumn, and Wilfred was not to be persuaded to leave his friends at Cheyne Walk, Mrs. Ormiston was obliged to wait for her holiday.

Wilfred was left free to follow his inclinations. His mother had never been wont to interfere with his wishes. And she was less disposed than ever to do so now since the fact of his engagement to Ida Nicolari gave her the greatest satisfaction. Not that Ida was exactly a girl after her own heart. She frankly owned that for some reasons she would have preferred that Wilfred's choice should have fallen on a girl with more of what she termed "style" and "go," some one in short after the stamp of Mrs. Ormiston's own daughters. She could not altogether understand Miss Nicolari, but that was of little consequence, since in other respects the match was "all that could be desired," a phrase which meant that Mrs. Ormiston was pleased to think of the fortune which the sculptor's daughter would bring her son.

Of late years Nicolari's work had commanded handsome prices, and since his mode of living was so simple, it might well be supposed that his savings would amount to a considerable sum. Moreover, it was known that Ida had property independent of what her father might leave her. The Ormistons were as glad that their son should wed wealth as though they had not been able to provide so easily for his wants. Money-making was the aim and end of William Ormiston's life. He could not understand how any one could have enough money or be indifferent to acquiring more. Not content with the magnificent income he drew from his business, he was for ever making new schemes for the employment of capital, with a view to increasing his gains. He had already begun to plan how Wilfred might turn his wife's fortune to the best account, and he congratulated himself on the thought that Nicolari, being of the dreamy, guileless, artist temperament, was not likely to make any fuss about settlements.

One evening in September, Mrs. Ormiston, seated in her showily furnished drawing-room in Sloane Square, was awaiting the arrival of Wilfred and Ida to join a family party at dinner. After her childish days were past, Ida had seldom visited the Ormistons, nor had they seen much more of her since her engagement to Wilfred. She found it difficult to get on with Wilfred's family. She had no tastes and sympathies in common with them, and their innate vulgarity jarred on her. On the plea of her father's need of her, she had declined most of their invitations, but on this occasion she had yielded to Wilfred's persuasions that she would spend an evening at his home in order to meet one of his married sisters, lately returned from abroad.

With Mrs. Ormiston in the drawing-room were her two married daughters and their husbands, her daughter Emmeline, still single, whom Wilfred used to twit with being an old maid, her sister Mrs. Collyer, a wealthy widow, and the widow's daughter Blanche, a talkative, over-dressed young lady, full thirty years of age, but anxious to appear younger. Mrs. Ormiston was a stout, matronly woman, who had been handsome in her time, after the florid, full-blown type of beauty, and still considered herself comely enough to adopt the most extreme style of evening dress. There were few traces of care or thought on her round, good-humoured face as she sat complacently regarding the gorgeous expanse of her flowered-satin skirt. She was perfectly honest in her vulgar-mindedness, and had no idea of hiding her sentiments on any subject, being quite unaware that there was anything to be ashamed of in her unveiled worldliness. She was a great talker, though she rarely said anything that was worth hearing, her mind being wont to dwell on matters of trivial interest. Just now she was talking about Ida and Wilfred, for whom the company were waiting.

"I do so long to see her," said Blanche Collyer, who had not yet made Ida's acquaintance. "She is very pretty, is she not, auntie?"

Blanche fancied that "auntie" came charmingly from her lips, as she sat in a childish attitude on a low ottoman beside Mrs. Ormiston, and she did not consider the suitability of that diminutive to be applied to the substantial-looking matron.

"Yes, I suppose she is pretty," said Mrs. Ormiston, "though that is a matter of taste. For my part, I like a girl to have some roses in her cheeks, and I do wish that Ida would not wear her hair in such an old-fashioned way."

"But you like the engagement, do you not, sister?" asked Mrs. Collyer, a little anxiously.

"Oh, yes, we like it," said Mrs. Ormiston. "It is a good thing for Will, for old Nicolari has made a nice lot of money by his sculptures, and of course his daughter will have it all."

"Then there is money made in that way," observed Mrs. Taylor, the daughter who had returned from India. "I thought papa objected to Wilfred's being a sculptor because he would not get rich in that profession?"

"So he did, for Art does not pay well, as a rule," replied her mother. "Nicolari made a good thing of it because he got to the top of the tree. Wilfred would have done better if he had gone into his father's business, where he might make more money in one year than he would in a dozen by messing about with clay. But I am not without hope that he will see his mistake yet. We look upon his love for sculpture as a fad that he will give up by-and-by."

"I wish with all my heart that he would give it up," said one of her sons-in-law, who was engaged in the business. "We want Wilfred at the office. The governor is quite overworked, but he will not hear of taking another partner."

"No; because he hopes that Wilfred will yet fill his right place," said Mrs. Ormiston, serenely. "Well, well, we shall see. Old Nicolari is failing fast, and when he is gone, and Wilfred is a married man, it will be easier to persuade him to take a common-sense view of things."

"I suppose Wilfred is very fond of her, auntie," said Blanche, wondering if her cousin had been drawn to Miss Nicolari by the attraction of her fortune.

"Oh yes, dear, no doubt of it, and she is devoted to him. Wilfred told me that Ida used to be quite jealous of Miss Seabrook, when she came to sit to him for her bust. He used to tease her by admiring Miss Seabrook. Naughty boy!"

"Miss Seabrook! Has he done her bust?" exclaimed Blanche, eagerly. "Do tell me about it! She is lovely, is she not?"

"Oh, yes; every one calls her a beauty. You see her photographs in the shops," said Mrs. Ormiston.

"You know that she is going to be married?" said Blanche, who prided herself on acquaintance with every item of news concerning the fashionable world that the Society papers could furnish.

"No, I did not know it. Who is she going to be married to?" inquired Mrs. Ormiston, with whom grammar was not a strong point.

"Oh, to some foreign swell—Count Ferowski, or some such name. He is said to be tremendously rich."

"Ah, the right match for a banker's daughter," said Mrs. Ormiston, without the least intention of being satirical. "Wilfred had some notion that she would marry Mr. Tregoning, one of the curates at St. Angela's, but I said that could never be; her father would know better than to let her marry a hungry curate."

Here Mrs. Ormiston's choice speech was interrupted by the entrance of Ida and Wilfred.

Ida was even more colourless though no less beautiful than usual. She was simply dressed in white, with no ornament save a string of pearls at her throat, and her quiet style of dress, contrasted with the gayer attire of the other ladies, made her produce an effect similar to that of a snowy lily midst flaunting tulips and marigolds.

Mrs. Ormiston welcomed her son's "fiancée" with a heartiness from which Ida rather shrank, as she did also from the minute inquiries concerning her father's health with which Mrs. Ormiston followed up her greeting. The daughters welcomed Ida with equal effusiveness, and on the entrance of Mr. Ormiston, a commonplace, shrewd-looking little man, the party adjourned to the dining-room.

The dinner was a dreary affair to Ida. She sat at the right of Mr. Ormiston, but he did little to entertain her, since he concentrated his attention on his dinner with the thoroughness to which his success in life was mainly due. Nor was Mr. Taylor, her other neighbour, though he dilated on his experiences in India, much more interesting. Wilfred was the most lively member of the party. His flow of small talk never failed, and his jokes, though not of the first quality, kept his female relatives constantly amused.

Mr. Taylor had ceased to talk to her, and Ida had fallen into a reverie, from which she was roused by hearing the name of Seabrook. It fell from the lips of Blanche Collyer, who was talking to Wilfred, by whom she was seated. Ida looked across at them with sudden interest.

"How strange you should mention her!" Wilfred was saying. "Oddly enough, Ida and I chanced to see her just now as we came along. We met a carriage loaded with travelling trunks, and I, glancing in, caught sight of Miss Seabrook and another lady whom I took to be her mother. I was surprised to see her in town at this time."

"Perhaps she has come home to prepare for her wedding," suggested Blanche Collyer.

"Very likely, and, now you mention it, I believe I saw a gentleman on the back seat of the carriage." As he said this, Wilfred's eyes encountered Ida's. "What do you think, Ida?" he said in a low tone, leaning across the table. "Blanche says that Miss Seabrook is going to marry some foreign count; so poor Tregoning is cut out."

Ida looked surprised and even startled.

"I daresay it is not true," she said after a moment.

"It is much more likely to be true than the other thing—I mean that she should marry Tregoning," returned Wilfred.

Ida made no reply, and Miss Seabrook's matrimonial prospects gave place to topics of more general interest. Ida made an effort to join in the talk that was going on, but all the while she was thinking of those few words which Wilfred had said to her, and Mr. Taylor observed that she had no appetite and only trifled with the dainty dishes on which Mrs. Ormiston prided herself. Ida was not concerned for Miss Seabrook's happiness, but she was intensely anxious for one whose happiness she believed would be wrecked if the news she had heard were true.

She was not to be persuaded to remain long after the drawing-room was regained. In any case she would have been desirous of returning to her father as early as possible, but since she had heard Miss Collyer's gossip, she had on her own account felt an eager longing to escape from this uncongenial company to the quietude of her home.

"Do you think it can be true about Miss Seabrook?" she said to Wilfred as he drove with her to Cheyne Walk.

"Very likely," he returned indifferently. "She would never think of Tregoning. She may have amused herself with him, but she could not marry him. It would be a most unsuitable match."

"Yes, because he is so much above her," said Ida, with sudden warmth. "But, Will, I can't think she was only amusing herself with him. She is—" Ida was about to say "too good," but she checked herself and substituted the word "religious." "She is too religious to act in such a way."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Wilfred. "Religious people are not always above amusing themselves at the expense of others. But, Ida, I wonder how long Miss Seabrook will be in town. Do you think she would give me a sitting? I long to get that bust finished and out of the way."

"If you like, I will call and ask her," said Ida.

"Oh, will you? That is good of you, darling."

"Don't give me credit for too much goodness," said Ida, with a smile; "I have a wish to see Miss Seabrook."

"Do you want to ask her if she is engaged?" The stopping of the fly at the sculptor's door spared Ida the necessity of replying to this question.

### CHAPTER XVIII.

WOUNDED.

IDA could hardly have explained the impulse which led her to Cromwell Road on the following day. It was surely of no importance to her whom Miss Seabrook might choose to wed, yet she was possessed by a feverish longing to know whether the rumour Miss Collyer had repeated had any foundation of truth.

It was easy for her to leave her father, for an artist friend from the country dropped in and stayed to luncheon, and whilst he and Antonio were chatting together, Ida slipped away to make her call.

On her arrival at Mr. Seabrook's house, the footman informed her that Miss Seabrook was not at home to visitors. But when Ida scribbled a few words on her card and begged him to give it to Miss Seabrook, he invited her to enter. And, after leaving her in an anteroom for a few minutes, he returned, and requesting her to follow him, led the way to Miss Seabrook's boudoir.

Here was that young lady, not now in elegant dishabille, but dressed ready to go out, and looking very charming in a picturesque hat and sweeping feathers. Never had Ida been more struck with the prettiness of Geraldine Seabrook's violet eyes, golden hair, and dazzling complexion, but she observed it now with a feeling of pain which Wilfred would doubtless have said proceeded from jealousy. But Wilfred was far from perfectly understanding the inner life of the woman whom he hoped to marry.

Geraldine was standing with arms extended whilst her maid buttoned her long gloves, and she greeted Ida in a careless manner which was not without a touch of condescension.

"Miss Nicolari! How in the world did you find me out? I hoped that no one knew I was in town. We only came home yesterday. But pray sit down. Of course I am glad to see you."

Despite her careless tone and grand air, a close observer might have detected signs of nervousness in Geraldine Seabrook's manner as she received her visitor. "I happened to see you when you were driving from the station yesterday," said Ida, as she took the chair to which Miss Seabrook pointed. "I hope you will not think me troublesome, but Mr. Ormiston is anxious to know if you could spare him just one hour in order that he may complete your bust."

"Oh, that bust!" exclaimed Miss Seabrook, in a tone of impatience.

"I suppose you would like to have it finished," said Ida, gravely.

"Oh yes, of course," returned Geraldine, "but I hardly know how to find an hour for the sitting. Could not Mr. Ormiston finish it without seeing me?"

"He could, perhaps," said Ida, "but the result would not be so satisfactory."

"No, I suppose not," said Geraldine. "Well, I will see what I can do. We shall only be in town for a few days, and then we are going to Scotland. The amount of shopping I have to do in the meantime is something quite appalling. I shall be as busy as possible, for there is so little time in which to give my orders and make arrangements. Perhaps you have heard—" Miss Seabrook paused and drooped her eyelids in an affected way, whilst the colour rose in her cheek.

"I have been told that you are going to be married," said Ida; "I do not know if it is true."

"It is true, alas!" replied Geraldine, shrugging her shoulders playfully. "The common fate of woman has befallen me. That will do, Dean; you may go."

Her maid withdrew, and a few moments of uneasy silence ensued.

"I suppose you have heard all about it," said Miss Seabrook presently, her tone betraying some embarrassment.

"I do not know—I do not understand," said Ida, and her voice was rather tremulous; "I thought that you and Mr. Tregoning—"

Miss Seabrook started, and a hot tide of colour rose in her face.

"Oh, pray do not couple my name with that unhappy curate's!" she exclaimed hastily. "Other people have done so, and it has annoyed me exceedingly. Theodore Tregoning could never be to me more than a friend."

"But I thought you gave me to understand—" Ida began.

"You misunderstood me if you thought anything of that kind," broke in Geraldine. "Of course I know that the poor fellow was wildly in love with me, but I could not help that. Perhaps I had my foolish dreams too, but it was quite out of the question; I knew that all along. My father would never have consented to it. Why do you look at me like that, Miss Nicolari? I am not to blame."

"Are you not?" said Ida, slowly. "Are you not, when you say that you knew his hope was vain, and yet you fed it with words and smiles and let him see you as often as he would? Oh, you have prepared for him a cruel disappointment. He will be heart-broken when he learns that you are going to marry another."

"Not so—men's hearts are not so easily broken," said Geraldine, with a little laugh. But though she could laugh, her face had paled and she looked disturbed by Ida's words.

"You may say what you like," she went on, "but I know that my friendship, my influence, has been good for Theodore Tregoning. But for me he would have been far less earnest in fulfilling his sacred duties. And this experience will do him no harm. It is good for a man to love a woman who is above him. He is a noble fellow. If I could have consulted my own inclinations—But I have to consider what is due to my position in society." Geraldine's last broken remark was uttered hesitatingly with downcast eyes. She did not see the scorn that kindled in Ida's eyes.

"Above him!" she exclaimed impetuously. "Can you say that you are above Theodore Tregoning? You call him noble, but you cannot know the true worth of his character or you would never dream of looking down on him. I suppose you are going to make what is considered a grand marriage," Ida continued, her clear tones ringing with scorn, "but whoever he may be whom you have chosen, however rich and exalted, he cannot be more truly great than is Theodore Tregoning."

Ida paused, almost breathless from the vehemence with which she had spoken under the stress of strong feeling.

Geraldine was startled by her words. She quailed before the scorn and indignation expressed by Ida's look and tone, and for a few moments she could say nothing.

Meanwhile Ida's eyes, turning from Geraldine, fell on the little Oratory freshly set out with flowers, the cross, and the Divine thorn-crowned Head. "Oh!" she exclaimed, with more of sorrow than of anger in her tones now, as she pointed to these symbols. "And you call yourself a Christian. You who worship Him who wore the crown of thorns and bore the agony of the cross, and yet you care only for the world's riches and glories! You cannot see the Divine beauty of simple goodness and truth. You may be very religious, but you have not the mind of Christ."

The words came from Ida without premeditation or the least forecasting of what their effect might be. It was as if she were impelled by some power outside herself to declare the selfishness and inconsistency she read in the shallow soul of this other woman. There are such moments in most lives, when passionate emotion wrings from us words which are a revelation to ourselves as we utter them. We did not know it was in us to feel so warmly or to speak so powerfully. When Ida ceased speaking, she was surprised and half awed at what she had said.

But Geraldine was now too sharply stung to keep silence. Every word of Ida's had pricked her keenly, for she was not so indifferent concerning Tregoning as she appeared. She had chosen to see the sculptor's daughter because she hoped to learn from her whether Theodore had yet heard the news of her engagement, and if so, how he was affected by it. Mortified and angered beyond endurance, her first impulse was to retaliate. She longed to wound Ida as she had been wounded, and she aimed at what she believed to be the most vulnerable point of Ida's consciousness. She smiled a pitying, contemptuous smile as she launched her shaft.

"You are excited, Miss Nicolari, or you would not utter such hasty, not to say discourteous words. But I understand; I can make allowance for you. You are in love with Theodore Tregoning yourself, and therefore you are indignant with me because you fancy I do not appreciate him."

Miss Seabrook had not miscalculated the effect of her words.

For a moment Ida gazed at her in blank amazement. Then she started from her seat, her eyes flaming with haughty indignation as she demanded—

"What do you mean? How dare you say such a thing?"

"I dare say it because I know it to be true," replied Geraldine, assuming a coolness she was far from feeling. "I saw from the first that you were fascinated with Tregoning. I could not wonder at it, for he is certainly very good-looking, and can be most agreeable when he likes."

Ida heard her with sensations of pain and bewilderment such as she had never experienced before. Tenderly guarded all her days by her father and Marie, it had seemed impossible that she could suffer insult. But now she felt that Miss Seabrook had deliberately insulted her, and all the pride of her womanhood was roused to resentment.

"It is not true!" she said indignantly, yet with a calmness which testified to her power of self-control. "You have no right to say such a thing. I may have spoken more freely than my acquaintance with you warrants; I may have been betrayed into unbecoming warmth, and for such discourtesy I would beg your pardon, had you not by your insulting remarks so far overstepped the limits of what may be tolerated between ladies as to throw the burden of forbearance upon me. In any case such words would be unendurable, but they are especially so since, as perhaps you are not aware, I am engaged to marry Mr. Ormiston."

It was now Miss Seabrook's turn to show uneasiness. The colour rose in her face, and she could not meet Ida's glance as she said almost humbly—

"No, I did not know it. I had no idea of such a thing, or I should not have spoken so. I beg your pardon, Miss Nicolari, if I have offended you by my thoughtless words."

"I certainly think that an apology was called for," said Ida, coldly. "But I will try to forget what you have said. Good morning, Miss Seabrook."

"Oh, do not go yet; I wish to explain—" Geraldine began hurriedly.

But Ida had moved swiftly towards the door, and with a haughty bow she passed out, leaving Miss Seabrook with her self-complacency more seriously shaken than it had ever been in her life.

Ida was herself too possessed by painful emotion to give a thought to Miss Seabrook's frame of mind. Moving like one in a dream, she made her way down the broad staircase and out of the house. She came to herself, as it were, as she walked rapidly towards home with the feverish energy given by excitement.

"She did not know," she said half aloud, drawing a deep breath; "she could never have said such a thing if she had known."

But still the girl's cheeks burned as she thought of what Miss Seabrook had said. She was close to the Kensington Museum, when, as she was about to cross the road, her progress was arrested by a stream of vehicles drawn thither by the special exhibition on view in the Museum. As she stood waiting till she could cross, she saw a familiar figure approaching her. But familiar though it was, she had to look again to be sure that she was not mistaken. Could this be Theodore Tregoning?—So altered, with all the light gone from his bright, expressive face, and that look of trouble in his eyes. Ida had no difficulty in accounting for his changed looks. He had heard of Miss Seabrook's engagement.

As he came near, a tremor seized Ida, her heart beat painfully, her limbs shook beneath her; she was conscious of such nervous suffering as made her dread the greeting she expected. She moved back a step or two from the edge of the pavement and looked straight before her, striving to maintain self-possession. But the next moment she was aware that Theodore Tregoning was passing her without recognition. So close was he as he went by that his sleeve almost brushed hers, yet he strode on heedlessly, his eyes fixed on some distant object, his appearance that of one so absorbed in thought as to see nothing of what surrounded him.

As he passed out of her sight, Ida was conscious of a fresh pain, a new and sharper anguish than she had yet experienced. She had dreaded to speak to him, yet now it seemed intolerable that he should pass her by thus. Inaction was unbearable under the pressure of this strange, inexplicable pain. Ida did not wait to see if crossing were safe. She hurried into the road and blindly made her way amidst the carriages. She came to a sudden halt right in the path of two prancing, high-bred horses. Happily, at the same moment a watchful policeman caught her by the arm and drew her back.

"You will get run over for a dead certainty if you wander across the road in that way," he warned her. "Do you want to put an end to your life?"

Poor Ida! Such utter, hopeless misery had taken possession of her, that for the moment she felt as if she did not care what became of her, and would be rather glad than otherwise if her life were brought to a sudden end. She made no reply, and the policeman took it upon him to lead her safely across the road, half suspecting that the beautiful, noble-looking young lady was not quite right in her mind.

Ida walked on, feeling faint and weak, like one recovering from a severe shock. Presently, with a fresh thrill of pain, it struck her what these strange sensations might mean. Oh! Could it be that those dreadful words Miss Seabrook had uttered were "true?"

### CHAPTER XIX.

THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE.

"IS anything the matter with you, Ida?"

Ida started at the sudden question. She had been reading to her father a description of some paintings by a foreign artist, but though she read on clearly and smoothly, her voice and manner had betrayed to Antonio's quick ear that her mind had wandered from what she read.

"There is nothing the matter with me, father," she answered quickly. "What made you think there was?"

"I fancied your tones sounded weary, dear," he said. "Don't read any more; I am sure you must be tired. Does your head ache?"

"Well, yes, now I think of it, it does ache," said Ida, striving to speak lightly, "but that is nothing."

"Do not say so. You must take care of your health, child; it is your most precious possession," he said earnestly. "Leave me now, and take a turn in the garden; the fresh air will do your head good, perhaps."

Ida obeyed him without demur. She had felt uneasy and restless since her return from Miss Seabrook's that afternoon. Every word that had passed between them during their brief interview had repeated itself to her many times. She was ill-pleased with herself, as she recalled what she had said in her warmth. What good had she done by reproaching Miss Seabrook with her heartlessness? But far deeper than this vexation with herself was Ida's sense of the pain and grief which another was enduring. As she thought of that, she felt that Geraldine Seabrook more than deserved every reproach she had cast at her. Ida would have given anything to be able to forget that retort of Miss Seabrook's which had stung her so sharply, but that would not soon be forgotten.

Antonio sighed as his daughter left him. It was one of the sorest conditions of his blindness that it prevented his watching the changes of the face that was dearest to him upon earth. Instinctively he divined that Ida was in trouble, and he longed to look into her clear dark eyes and read therein the source of her distress.

Ida went downstairs with slow, uncertain steps. For once she was almost glad to quit her father's presence, for it was hard to maintain the cheerfulness she always tried to show when with him. She was thankful that an engagement had kept Wilfred from them that evening. She would have to give him some account of her visit to Miss Seabrook, but it was a relief not to be called upon to do so immediately.

Ida had not heard the house-bell ring, and she was surprised, on gaining the hall, to see Anne in the act of opening the door to a visitor. In the dim evening light, Ida could not at first see who it was that entered, and her heart fell at the thought that it might be Wilfred. But the next moment she experienced a thrill of more vivid emotion, as she perceived that the visitor was Theodore Tregoning. She was glad that the twilight screened her, for she felt strangely agitated as she went forward to meet him.

"Good evening, Mr. Tregoning, how are you? Will you walk upstairs? My father will be very pleased to see you."

"Thank you, I must beg to be excused this evening," said Tregoning, hurriedly, as they shook hands. "I have only come to bring a message from my mother; I cannot stay."

"Mrs. Tregoning is quite well, I hope?"

"Yes,—at least, no—I ought to say that she has been suffering a good deal this week, and is obliged to keep indoors. She thought you would think it strange that she had not been to see you, and she begged me to let you know how she was, and that she would be very pleased to see you if you can spare an hour for her."

"I will certainly try to do so," said Ida. "I am very sorry that she is ill. Please tell her so with my love, and say that I will come in a day or two."

"Thank you," he said rather absently. Though his purpose in coming was accomplished, he made no movement to go. Yet whilst he lingered, nervously stroking his clerical hat, he did not inquire for Mr. Nicolari, or attempt any conventional remark. Ida guessed that there was something else he wished to say to her.

"Pray come in, Mr. Tregoning," she said, leading the way into the dining-room. "I want to hear more about Mrs. Tregoning. You can surely wait a few minutes even if you cannot spare time for a chat with father."

He followed her without a word. The window-blinds were drawn up, and the room seemed full of light after the dimness of the hall. Ida cast a quick glance at Tregoning. She had never seen him look so pale, so full of trouble. She perceived that his mind was in such a state of pain and confusion as to render him incapable of observing any change in her. With this perception, Ida's usual quiet self-possession returned to her.

"How did Mrs. Tregoning get ill?" she inquired. "Has she taken cold again?"

"Yes, I believe so," he said, still absently. It was clearly not about his mother that he wished to speak. There was silence for a few moments, and then he began to speak hurriedly and incoherently: "Perhaps you may have heard—perhaps you know—"

He paused, as if unable to express himself, and after a moment put the direct question:

"Have you seen Miss Seabrook lately?"

"Yes, I saw her only this afternoon," said Ida, quietly.

"Ah!" He drew a long breath, and his face grew perceptibly paler, as he added in hesitating tones, "Did she say anything—did she tell you—?"

"She told me some news that I was very much surprised to hear," said Ida, speaking as deliberately as possible, in order to give him time to control himself. "She told me that she was engaged to be married."

It hardly seemed possible that Tregoning could look more wretched than he did, yet now the trouble in his face deepened to despair. His lips quivered helplessly; he could not hide how he was wounded. Yet he tried to summon his manliness to his aid.

"Then it is true," he said, below his breath; adding the next moment, more clearly, "You will excuse me, Miss Nicolari; I must go."

He did not wait for any more formal leave-taking. In another second he was gone, and she heard the outer door close upon him.

Ida sank on to a chair and sat motionless for a few moments, staring blankly at the spot where he had stood. Then suddenly she bowed her head upon her hands and burst into tears. "Oh!" she cried to herself in the anguish of a grief different from any she had before experienced, "I don't know whether I love him, but I know that I would have done or suffered anything to save him from this pain."

When Ida returned to her father, she had to confess that her headache was much worse, and yielding to his and Marie's persuasions she went early to bed.

Ida could not make up her mind to go to Mrs. Tregoning on the following day. She shrank from seeing Theodore again and reading fresh signs of the suffering Geraldine Seabrook had caused him. But when the morrow came, she could no longer put off her duty to her friend, especially as her father, to whom she had mentioned Mrs. Tregoning's illness, strongly urged her to go.

It was towards evening that Ida set out to pay her visit. The day had been one of those grey, gloomy days which in London may come at any season, and now, as Ida crossed the threshold of her home, a faint haze hung over the river and veiled every distant object, which though resembling a fog only "as the mists resemble rain," yet exerted a chilling, depressing influence on both mind and body. But uninviting as the evening was, Ida walked all the way to Westfield Road. She was in one of those moods which are relieved by exertion. Her mental vision seemed clearer and her mind could work more easily as she walked along with swift, free step, so rapt in thought as to be scarcely conscious of her movements.

Ida found Mrs. Tregoning lying on the couch in her drawing-room. She looked ill and worn, but Ida could see that her malady was now more mental than physical. She welcomed Ida eagerly, for to be alone, the victim of painful thoughts, was a severe strain on her powers of endurance. Without hesitation she confided her trouble to Ida.

"Yes, dear, I have been very poorly," she said, in reply to Ida's affectionate greeting. "But that is over; I should be well now if I were not so unhappy. Oh, Ida, my poor Theodore!" And Mrs. Tregoning burst into tears.

Ida said nothing, though she knew well to what Mrs. Tregoning's words referred. She waited for her to explain herself more fully, and meanwhile found it difficult to keep from crying in sympathy, as she caressed and soothed the poor worn-out woman.

"You know that Geraldine Seabrook is engaged," said Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she could command her voice, "and you can fancy what a blow that is to Theodore. But no—you cannot fancy it—no one can know what it is to him, but me, his mother. He loved her with all his heart, poor fellow. Oh, she behaved wickedly to him, Ida! You have no idea how she encouraged him and led him on, pretending to take the deepest interest in all he said or did. I really thought that she loved him; I did indeed!"

"I know that you did," said Ida, "but I suppose we often make mistakes in judging of the feelings of others. It is very difficult to read the heart of another."

"Yes, especially the heart of one so false as Geraldine has proved. She deliberately deceived Theodore. Oh, I could not have believed it of her, for she seemed such a devoted Christian. But she was not true at heart. You know how she used to talk about the Church, Ida? Yet now she is going to marry a Russian Count, a man of another religion—a Roman Catholic, I suppose—or, is it the Greek Church?—I am sure I don't know, my head is so bewildered. What religion do the Russians follow?"

"That of the Greek Church," said Ida.

"Well, I never could have believed it of Geraldine," continued Mrs. Tregoning. "So earnest as she was about the services! I used to think she was too Ritualistic, and made Theodore go too far, but still I always thought she was good and kind."

Ida hardly knew how to reply to Mrs. Tregoning's excited confidences.

"I suppose the gentleman is very rich, and her father wished the match. Perhaps she felt obliged to please him," suggested Ida, prompted by her own experience, and wishing to give Miss Seabrook the benefit of the most charitable construction that could be placed on her conduct.

"Oh, her father would not force her to marry any one against her will," said Mrs. Tregoning, "and Geraldine always professed to care nothing for money. And I used to think that it would be such a good thing for Theodore, for of course she would have money, and he needs money, poor fellow. Perhaps it was wrong of me to think of it, but you know it is well that a clergyman should marry money. And I don't mind telling you, that with only my little income and Theo's slender stipend to depend on, we find it far from easy to live here in Kensington. So I could not help thinking how nice it would be. Well, I am punished for my worldly-mindedness. Oh, Ida! What shall I do if he goes away, and I do not know when he will come back?"

"What do you mean?" asked Ida, with a sudden pang.

"Oh, I forgot that I had not told you the worst," said Mrs. Tregoning, her voice broken by sobs. "He has resigned his curacy and he is going away. He says that he will never preach again, that he will give up the ministry. Oh, that girl has spoiled my son's life!"

"Do not say so," said Ida, gently, at a loss how to deal with Mrs. Tregoning's hysterical emotion.

"It is true," she sobbed, "and what will become of him if he gives up his profession? His godfather had him educated with a view to the Church, and he has promised Theo the living which is in his gift when it falls vacant. What can Theo be if he is not a clergyman?"

"Oh, do not trouble about that," said Ida, soothingly. "He may think differently about it after a while, and, if not, there must surely be other careers open to him."

His mother shook her head. "You do not know how determined he is when once he has taken a stand. It is of no use to try to move him. He has given up the curacy and he will be off to-morrow. But hush, here he comes. We must not let him think we have been talking about him."

And Mrs. Tregoning dried her eyes and attempted to choke back her sobs as her son entered the room.

He came in slowly, with clouded brow and downcast eyes. He had not expected to find Ida with his mother, but his manner did not change at seeing her. He shook hands with her quietly, and then stationed himself at one of the windows, making some trivial observations on the weather.

Ida rose to go.

"Do not go yet," said Mrs. Tregoning, pressing her hand significantly as if to entreat her to stay.

But Ida was not to be persuaded.

"I must go indeed," she said, "but I will come and see you again soon."

"It is getting dark; you cannot go home by yourself. Theo will walk with you; won't you, Theo?"

"With pleasure," he responded, but in a tone which hardly made good the words.

"Oh, I cannot think of troubling you," said Ida.

"It would be no trouble," he replied, still in the same tone of formal politeness.

"It will do him good to have a little fresh air," put in Mrs. Tregoning.

"Well, if you will kindly see me into a cab, I shall be obliged to you," said Ida; "I have no intention of walking."

And with this understanding, they went downstairs together.

They had to walk a few steps to the nearest cabstand. As they went down the Westfield Road, Tregoning again felt called upon to make a remark on the weather.

But Ida could stand no more of that sort of thing. With sudden boldness she took a friend's privilege and said: "Mrs. Tregoning tells me that you are going away to-morrow."

"Yes, I am going away," he replied mechanically.

"Where are you going?—if I may ask."

"You may ask certainly," he said, "but I do not know that I can tell you. I shall knock about on the Continent for a while. I suppose I shall go to Paris first, but I scarcely know, or indeed care what will become of me."

"I am very sorry," said Ida, in low, sad tones.

He cast a quick glance at her.

"My mother has told you?"

"Yes, she has told me you are in trouble," said Ida, tremulously. "I hope you do not mind. Indeed, I knew it before, I felt sure that it must be so."

"Ah, you saw how deluded I was!" he exclaimed, bitterly. "You saw how I believed in her—fool that I was! Yet how could I help it?" he added, as if speaking to himself. "She is so lovely, and she seemed to me so good."

Ida could say nothing, and after a moment he went on, as though it was a relief to give utterance to his bitter feelings: "I shall be wiser in future—I shall know better than to trust a fair appearance again. Oh, I thought her so pure and sweet! I fancied she would be my good angel, my inspiration and help, and instead she has proved my curse—she has ruined my life!"

"Oh, you do not mean that. It is such a dreadful thing to say!" exclaimed Ida. "You will not, you cannot, let her spoil your life. There are great possibilities before you yet."

"Are there? I wish I knew where to look for them," he returned, with a laugh which struck discordantly on Ida's ear, it was so unmirthful, so unlike his old glad laugh. "But on one thing I am resolved," he continued, "I will not be a clergyman—I will not hold a false position and profess to believe what I do not."

"I should hope not," said Ida, quietly. "But what is it that you do not believe?"

"You should rather ask what it is that I believe," he replied. "You do not know how much—she—Miss Seabrook, had to do with the formation of my religious opinions. It was easy to believe whilst I believed in her, but now everything seems slipping away from me—I do not know what to believe."

"But you know in Whom you believe," said Ida, in low, solemn tones. "You know Him who is 'the Truth.' You cannot doubt Him?"

"I do not know," he repeated in hopeless tones.

"You will know," she said earnestly. "Why, it was your faith that kindled mine. It was because you knew Him—because I saw that He was to you a Real Presence—a Living One, that I ventured to put my trust in Him. Oh, it may be that you cannot see Him now. The cloud of trouble may hide Him from your sight, but you will behold Him again. He will draw nigh to you in His love and pity, and give you strength to endure. Oh, it is well that we have a Saviour who suffered, for the world is so full of trouble. His life is a type and pattern of ours. He bore His bitter cross for us, and we have each our cross to bear in patience after Him."

In his despair, Theodore Tregoning felt the power of Ida's words. There was that within him which responded to them. He was touched too by the unconscious pathos with which she spoke. Ida had no idea what self-revelation there was in her words, but Theodore was not so selfishly absorbed in his sorrow as to be unaware that Ida was speaking to him out of her own experience. He was a man of wide, strong sympathies, and he felt the sadness of Ida's tones and the sad look in her eyes. She, too, this young, fair girl, so slight in form, but in spirit so strong, had her sorrows, her cross that it was hard to bear. With the perception came a stimulating sense of fellowship in suffering. But he made no reply.

They walked on in silence for a few moments, and when Theodore spoke again it was only to make a request, though in a softened manner that seemed to show that Ida's words had not been spoken in vain.

"I know I may ask a kindness of you, Miss Nicolari," he said. "Will you see my mother as often as you can whilst I am away? It is hard upon her to be left alone, but—I must get away by myself for a time."

"I will do all I can to cheer Mrs. Tregoning," Ida promised. "You know how any father needs me, but I will try to see as much of her as possible."

"Thank you; that is very kind," he said earnestly. "Ah, here is your cab."

The next minute he was handing her into the vehicle, and with a pang Ida realised that the moment of parting had arrived.

"Good-bye!" was all she could say as she put her hand into his.

"Good-bye!" he repeated.

Her hand lingered in his for a moment, her eyes were raised wistfully to his face, as though she would fain have said more, but words were not forthcoming. The driver had mounted to his seat and turned to inquire whither he was to drive. Tregoning told him; the horse was jerked into sudden activity, and the cab rattled off.

Ida took one last glance at Tregoning as he stood on the pavement. "Perhaps I shall never see him again," she said to herself; "perhaps I ought to hope that I may not." But the thought could not soothe her heart-ache.

### CHAPTER XX.

THE WEDDING DAY DRAWS NEAR.

AS the autumn advanced, every one who saw Antonio, save only his daughter, knew that his life was drawing to its close. Perhaps it was well that Ida did not perceive with what rapidity his strength declined, for her courage was already severely taxed. The pathway of the future looked to her hard and gloomy enough as it was. Had she known how soon she must part with him whose life alone seemed to give value to her own, her heart must have fainted beneath its load of care. For Ida's engagement had brought her no sense of supporting love, no sweet anticipations. Her affection for Wilfred did not gain in depth under the new form their friendship had taken. Rather she felt that that affection was being more and more strained by fresh revelations of the narrowness and insipidity of Wilfred's ideas. Ida did not say to herself that Wilfred was shallow, vulgar-minded, incapable of understanding her highest thoughts and feelings, but in her heart she felt that there could never be between them that perfect sympathy which constitutes the ideal marriage, and she found herself looking forward with dread to the fulfilment of the promise she had given.

She had too good reason to fear that her father's proud prophecies for Wilfred's future would never be realised. It seemed to her that the mournful prophecy, "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel," might more truly be pronounced upon Wilfred. Already the enthusiasm for work which Wilfred had manifested in the early days of his wooing was beginning to flag.

As Antonio's increasing weakness led him to visit the studio less frequently, Wilfred relaxed his efforts, coming later to his work, or giving it up at an earlier hour, on the plea of an engagement, which engagement was generally of a pleasurable character. Wilfred was not wanting in ability. If he lacked genius, he had ability of a high order, but he shrank from the steady application which alone could fully develop and perfect that talent. He loved the sculptor's art as well as he could love work. In any other occupation he would have betrayed the same weakness, and found the "primrose path of dalliance" offer irresistible temptations.

Ida's heart ached, as she discerned this grave flaw in the character of the man whose life was to be linked to her own. She could not help contrasting his instability with the steadfastness of another, who, whatever mistakes he had made, had shown that he could throw himself with whole-souled energy into any sort of work for the benefit of his fellow-men.

Ida was not surprised that Miss Seabrook did not find time for another visit to the studio. After what had passed between them, it was not to be expected that she would come. Wilfred, thinking it useless to wait longer, finished the bust as well as he could and sent it home. Ida thought that he had succeeded fairly well in representing Miss Seabrook's delicate but somewhat insignificant features. The house in the Cromwell Road was deserted by all save servants when the bust arrived there, and not till some weeks later did Wilfred receive an acknowledgment of it in the form of a note from Mr. Seabrook enclosing a cheque for the price, and curtly expressing his approval of the work. Wilfred, who had really taken considerable pains with the bust, was a little nettled by the way in which it was received.

Anxious as she was to save him trouble, Ida could not long hide from her father that Wilfred was falling into his old, irregular manner of work. Antonio still wanted to know every particular of the work done in the studio, and the earnest questions which he put both to her and to Fritz could not truthfully be evaded. But what he learned respecting Wilfred only made Antonio anxious that the wedding should not be long delayed. He knew that Wilfred shared this desire. His engagement had not brought the young man entire satisfaction. Ida was too cold to please him. Sometimes he could almost fancy that she was indifferent to his love. But the fear only made Wilfred the more eager to hasten their union.

When Wilfred urged that the wedding should take place before the end of the year, Ida at once negatived the idea. She could not, she would not, hear of its taking place so soon. Some time in the following summer it might be thought of, but not before.

But Wilfred, finding that he could not persuade her, had recourse to Antonio, feeling sure of success if he could secure his advocacy. Nor was he mistaken. Ida's heart sank within her when her father began to speak to her on the subject of her marriage. Too surely she guessed what was coming, and knew that she would not be able to resist his wish. They were sitting together in the drawing-room, where Antonio now spent most of his waking hours, for he had ceased to go out, being no longer equal even to the slight fatigue involved in taking a drive, and on many days he did not go downstairs, but merely passed from his bedroom to the drawing-room.

"Ida," he said suddenly, when neither of them had spoken for some time, "Wilfred tells me that you talk of putting off your wedding till next year. I hope, dear, it is no consideration of my comfort which leads you to postpone it. Indeed, I should be better pleased to know that you were about to be united."

"Would you, father?" asked Ida, tremulously. "Do you really wish it to take place soon?"

"I do, indeed, my child, and I will tell you why. I have been made to feel during the last few days that the sands in my glass of time are running out very swiftly. I must soon leave you, Ida, and I would fain give you to Wilfred ere I pass away. I should like to know that you and he would live on together in this old home after I am gone."

Ida cast one frightened glance at her father's face, and there she read the truth. How blind she had been not to see it before, to fancy that her father's weakness was only temporary, occasioned by the weather or dependent on conditions that would change.

"Oh, father!" she cried impetuously. "What does it matter what becomes of me, if I lose you? I should be miserable here or anywhere without you."

"Hush, hush, dear; you must not say so. You have Wilfred to live for, to be to him the guide, the helper that a true wife is to her husband. My child, I scarcely think that I can live till the end of the year, and I should like to leave you Wilfred's wife. So, if you have no strong objection—"

"Father, I will do anything that you wish," exclaimed Ida, "but oh—how can I think of marrying? Wilfred would want to take me away, perhaps, and I could not bear to leave you for a day."

"That could be easily arranged," said Nicolari, not unmoved by the anguish which Ida's words and tones revealed. "You could take your wedding journey later. Do not delay it on that account, my child."

Poor Ida, or perhaps we should rather say, poor Nicolari! He thought he was securing the welfare of both Wilfred and Ida by urging her to this step. Many a father has failed to read correctly the heart of his daughter, and Antonio, wise and good as he was, blundered now. But he remained in happy ignorance of his mistake. He did not guess what a struggle it cost Ida to say, as she did after a minute—"Father, it shall be as you wish."

He heard the sadness in her voice, but attributed it solely to the thought of his approaching death, which was now constantly before his mind.

"You must try not to grieve over-much because my earthly life is wearing to its close," he said, gently. "Was it not Michael Angelo who said, 'The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows'? I trust it is true of me that as my body wastes the wings of the spirit expand. Ida, I have thought of late that if I could have my sight again I could do nobler work than any I have done. And sometimes I dream that my ideals will find fulfilment otherwhere, and that a nobler, grander life awaits me when I have laid aside this worn-out garment of flesh. Child, when I am no more, let the words of Plato comfort you, 'The beloved one whom his relative thinks he is laying in the earth, has but gone away to fulfil his destiny.' You remember the words?"

"Yes, father," said Ida, commanding her voice by a strong effort, "but I would rather draw comfort from remembrance of how One greater than Plato said, 'He that believeth on Me shall never die.'"

She ended with an irrepressible burst of weeping. Her grief was all for the coming parting. What did it matter what sort of life she led when he was gone?

Thus it came to pass that a day in December was fixed for Ida's wedding. But never surely was bride-elect so indifferent to the arrangements for her bridal.

"Settle it as you will, Marie," she would say, when questioned as to any detail of her trousseau; "I leave it all to you."

"But, Miss Ida, you should think of these things," Marie would say reproachfully. "Who but you can tell what will please Mr. Wilfred's taste?"

"You know as much about that as I do, Marie. I can think only of my father."

"Well, of course, Miss Ida, one cannot wonder at that, under the circumstances, though generally speaking a husband should come before any one else."

"Wilfred is not my husband yet!" exclaimed Ida, with sudden warmth. "And that is quite a new opinion of yours, Marie. You used to tell me that you loved me better than Fritz, and that you married him out of pity. So you see I am only following your example if I care more for father than for Wilfred."

Marie could not help smiling at the way in which Ida threw back her words. But a grave look succeeded to the smile. She had indeed professed to love Ida better than her husband, but perhaps that was not quite true. The human heart can entertain various loves without stinting any, and Marie's deep faithful love for her young lady did not render her incapable of a true woman's love for her husband. Marie saw no harm in talking lightly of marrying her husband out of pity, but she felt it was not well that Ida should regard her marriage in the light of a sacrifice. She grew uneasy as she saw how little Ida cared to think or speak of her wedding. For one thing only did Ida stipulate. The wedding must be as quiet as possible. There was to be no gay apparel, no fuss or feasting, much to the vexation of Mrs. Ormiston, who would have liked the wedding of her only son to be a very grand affair. Antonio seemed content when he knew that in a few weeks Wilfred and Ida would be married. He was growing very feeble, but the medical man who visited him every day gave good hope that he would live to see his daughter's wedding day, and may days to follow.

But for her promise to Theodore Tregoning, Ida would hardly have quitted the house at this time, but she went once and again to see his mother, and Mrs. Tregoning, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered from her illness, came every day to Cheyne Walk. Her visits were not cheering to Ida, for she was often in despair about her son, whose short though affectionate letters gave no satisfactory account of himself. He was moving from place to place, still restless and unhappy, and at a loss how to order his future life.

"He will go on like this till his money fails, I suppose," said his mother to Ida, "and then he will have to form some plan. But meanwhile, he may catch his death of fever in some of those ill-smelling Continental towns. I have not a moment's peace for thinking of it."

Poor Ida, in the midst of her own sorrows, did her best to comfort the poor nervous woman.

Most precious to Ida were the hours she passed alone with her father, when Wilfred was working, or supposed to be working, in the studio. Then she would read or talk to Antonio of the Beautiful Life. He loved to listen to her. He had ceased to criticise Christianity or utter bitter comments on the inconsistencies of those who called themselves Christians. He spoke of the Christ with such reverence that Ida with trembling joy could hope that the eyes of his soul were turning in humble faith to the Light of Men.

### CHAPTER XXI.

ANTONIO GOES AWAY TO FULFIL HIS DESTINY.

HALF of the month of November was gone, and it wanted but three weeks to the day which had been fixed for Ida's wedding. The weather had been damp and mild, when with cruel haste Winter asserted itself, and bitter north-easterly winds made life a misery to all but the most robust, and even their powers of endurance were severely taxed. The sudden inclemency of the weather produced a marked change for the worse in the old sculptor, though Ida and Marie took care to keep his room as warm as possible and to shield him from draught or chill.

On the third day of that spell of cold, Antonio did not attempt to leave his bed. His pulse was low, his breathing laboured, and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to take nourishment. The medical man looked grave, as he noted the condition of his patient, but he said little save to direct that a strong stimulant should at short intervals be given to the old man. Ida felt sadly anxious as she sat and watched her father. He dozed and hardly spoke during the greater part of the day, but towards evening, he rallied, and seemed so bright that Ida's heart took fresh courage.

He expressed a wish to see Wilfred, and talked to him for some time, inquiring earnestly about his work.

"Good-bye, lad," he said, when Wilfred, at a hint from Ida, who feared that her father was wearying himself, was about to withdraw. "Good-bye; aim ever at the highest both in life and work."

Wilfred was touched as he saw the tender, yearning expression on the face of his old master and felt his withered hand grasp his with all the strength it could command. It was as if he were uttering a farewell, but that was a foolish fancy, Wilfred said to himself; the end could not be yet.

Later on, when the lamp was lit and the fire burning brightly, Antonio asked Ida to read to him. Without question, she took up the New Testament, the book she had most often read to him of late.

"What shall I read, father?" she asked as she turned over the pages.

"Read of the sufferings of Jesus Christ," he said. "Do you remember, Ida, the words which Michael Angelo said to his household as they gathered about his death-bed? 'In your passage through this life remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ.' I have thought little of the Christ during my lifetime, but now that it draws to its end, I would fain fix my thoughts on Him, and understand Him if I could."

There was silence for a few minutes. Ida could not at once command her voice. But presently, in tones that were clear and sweet, though somewhat tremulous, she began to read the 27th chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel.

As she ended, her father's voice echoed the words:

"'Truly this was the Son of God!'"

"Oh, father," cried Ida, joy and sorrow contending within her as she spoke, "you see His beauty, you know Him now!"

"Ay, I see now what I could not see before," said Antonio, brokenly. "Child, I was blind long ere I lost my bodily vision, blind with that worst possible blindness, a darkened spirit. I closed my eyes to the Divine Light of Day, and worked only in the moonlight of Nature. 'Art, for Art's sake,' I said to myself, and failed to see how the low aim narrowed and debased my work. Tregoning was right. True art cannot be bounded by the finite; it should lead the spirit onward and upward to God, the Supreme Good. Ida, I have wasted my talents; I have been but a maker of idols."

"No, no, father, you must not say so!" she cried. "Your work has been true and noble, if not the highest possible, and no good work can be lost. Think how your Good Shepherd will appeal to the hearts of all who look on it; think of the great truth embodied in your Psyche!"

"Maybe my work is better than myself," he said mournfully. "It may have results of which I did not dream when I wrought with chisel or moulding tools. We ourselves are tools in the hands of the Divine Worker. Ida, I can but hope that it was for such as me that Jesus prayed when He said, 'Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.'"

"Surely it was for all who sin ignorantly," she replied.

"And yet I might have known—I ought to have seen," he said. "Ida, I can only cry as the poor dying thief did: 'Lord, remember me.' I can say to Him: 'Thou who knowest all, take my case into Thy loving consideration, and deal with me in Thy mercy.'"

"And He will, He will!" Ida murmured, with tears. She could not say any more. It was all she could do to control herself.

Antonio lay still for awhile, apparently exhausted by the emotion which had been excited within him. Presently he said faintly:

"Kiss me, Ida, my child; I think I shall sleep."

Ida kissed him many times. Then she gave him some milk and brandy, as the doctor had ordered, but he could only take a few spoonfuls.

In a little while, he appeared to be sleeping soundly. This sleep was unlike the brief, broken slumbers he had taken during the day. He did not rouse from it as the hours went by, even when they tried to give him nourishment.

"It must be well for him to sleep so soundly," said Ida at night, as she and Marie stood by the bed looking down on the sleeper.

Marie did not reply. She knew not what to think of this deep sleep.

"Now Marie, you must go to bed," said Ida. "I shall not leave him to-night; I shall rest perfectly well in this chair beside him."

"No, no, Miss Ida; you had better go to bed, and let me sit up with the master."

But Ida would not relinquish her right to watch beside her father, nor would she permit Marie to share her watch. Her father would surely wake the better and stronger for this refreshing sleep. Sorely against her will, Marie retired, and Ida, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown, seated herself in the deep armchair which stood beside her father's bed.

How slow, how solemn seemed the moments as they passed! All was still save for the faint crackle of the fire and the low sound of her father's breathing. Ida thought it impossible that she should sleep. Her mind was in a state of painful tension, possessed by a vague dread which she could not shake off. She could not define her fear.

"Surely," she said to herself more than once during her lonely watch, "it is well that he should sleep thus."

Her mind was very active during the still, slow hours. Memory wandered through the past, recalling her happy childhood and all the things that had been during her peaceful life of closest companionship with her father. How cloudless, how precious, seemed the bygone days! And they were for ever gone. Her future could not "copy fair her past." The joys that had been could not bloom again.

Ida must have passed into a doze as she mused upon the past, when suddenly she was roused to fullest consciousness by her father's voice crying in clear, ringing tones, "Ida! Ida!"

She started up in a moment. Her father had raised himself in bed. There was a glad, bright look upon his face, his eyes were wide open, and to her amazement it seemed to her that he "saw."

"I am here, father!" she cried, taking his chill hand in hers and pressing it tenderly.

But he heeded her not, and she saw with wonder mingled with fear that he was looking not at her but beyond her, as though he saw some gladdening vision that she could not behold. She felt that it was not to her that his words were addressed.

"Ida," he cried again, in tones that thrilled his child as she listened. "My lost love given back to me! You were right, you were always right. As we draw near to the Christ, we see Him to be the True, the All-lovely One."

There was a pause. His eyes were still straining forward, his face was lit up with indescribable rapture, when suddenly he exclaimed:

"Oh, it is all light, pure light! I see—I see—Christ in His beauty!"

The next moment he had fallen back upon his pillow, and the stillness that followed told Ida that he had passed from earth.

She did not cry out, nor summon help. She bent over him and closed his eyelids and straightened his form upon the pillow. A wonderful calmness had fallen on her. It was as if her own life had come to an end, and she should never feel sorrow more. So far from sorrowing, indeed, she was conscious of a strange joy.

"He sees now," she said to herself. "He is no longer feeble and blind. He has gone into the light of God, 'out of darkness into his marvellous light.'"

But this exalted feeling could not last. As she gazed on her father's face slowly taking the rigidity of death, a trembling seized Ida. She felt faint, helpless, forsaken. With one long, quivering sigh, she sank upon her knees beside the bed, still grasping the dead, cold hand. Then consciousness fled; and thus Marie found her when she came in the early morning to learn how the master was.

### CHAPTER XXII.

FATHERLESS.

IT was a wise thought of Marie's to send the sad tidings to Mrs. Tregoning without delay. Despite the bitter weather, and the feeble health which required that she should guard herself from exposure to it, the widow lost no time in hastening to the child of her dearest friend, now fatherless as well as motherless.

She found Ida lying on a couch in the drawing-room, looking white and fragile, like some delicate lily that a pitiless storm has swept to earth. She was quite calm. There were no tears in the eyes which were turned towards the window, through which stole a faint gleam of wintry sunshine penetrating the dull grey fog.

Marie had wished to draw down the blinds, but Ida had prevented her. "Why should we sit in gloom because my father's darkness is past?" she had asked. And Marie could not answer her.

The child's quiet, tearless sorrow touched Mrs. Tregoning deeply. She knew by sad experience with what a cruel wrench death sunders hearts that cling to each other, and the aching sorrow, the sense of utter loneliness, that must be borne by the one who is left behind. All her love and pity went out to Ida, and as she knelt beside the couch and folded her in a tender embrace, Ida was conscious of a faint dawning of comfort. She was not utterly forsaken. Human sympathy and human tenderness were still hers.

"How good of you to come to me!" she murmured. "If I could have thought of anything, I should have said I wished for you. For you know—you can understand."

"I do indeed, my poor child; I know how you are feeling. Ida, you must let me be as a mother to you now, for indeed I have felt as if you belonged to me ever since the day I first saw you, my Ida's child."

"You are very good," faltered Ida, still shedding no tears. "And Marie is so good to me. Every one is good and kind, but—"

"Yes, I know, my love; you cannot take comfort yet, though you are young, and you have consolations."

"My being young only makes it the harder," said Ida, in the saddest of tones, "but I know what you mean. I have consolation. I am trying hard to think only of that—of the light and gladness into which he has gone. I ought to be so thankful that he is no longer blind."

"Yes, it should comfort you to think of his happiness," said Mrs. Tregoning, though this was not what she had meant when she spoke of consolation; "and it is well that you do not stand alone in your sorrow. You are blessed in having Mr. Ormiston to lean upon, and being able to look forward to a happy future with him."

Mrs. Tregoning, in her well-meant endeavours to console, had unknowingly opened another wound. Ida started at her words, and a low cry escaped her.

"Oh, don't, don't!" she said imploringly. "Not a word of my future, if you love me! I cannot bear to think of that yet."

Mrs. Tregoning looked bewildered and disturbed. "My dear child," she began, "I would not pain you for the world. I only meant—"

"Yes, yes, I know," faltered Ida; "you only meant what was kind and good, but I cannot bear such talk as that. Oh," she cried suddenly, her voice breaking as she spoke, and her face quivering with anguish. "Life is so hard. If only I were at rest too! That still, cold hand! As I held it, I wished that I too were lying still and cold, all trouble over."

The wild words ended with a burst of violent weeping. The strange, unnatural calm was broken now. Every barrier of reserve and self-control gave way, and Ida's grief poured itself forth like a torrent as she clung to her friend, conscious even in her anguish of the support of sympathy. Ida had no idea how much she revealed to Mrs. Tregoning when she said, as her sobs grew less—"I cannot be married so soon now; it is impossible. You will tell them so, will you not? You will help me?"

"My dear child, you may rely on me," Mrs. Tregoning responded to the pleading tones, without pausing to inquire on whom she was to impress the impossibility of Ida's wedding taking place at the time fixed. "It is certainly only right that the wedding should be put off, at least for a few weeks."

"Thank you! Thank you," cried poor Ida, almost eagerly. "I knew you would understand; I knew you would help me. Oh, how I wish you could stay with me!"

"I will stay with you, my child, if you wish it," said Mrs. Tregoning, after a moment's reflection. "I can easily arrange to do so, since I have now no tie to keep me elsewhere."

With sudden intuition, Mrs. Tregoning had become aware that Ida's heart was not in the marriage which had been planned for her. She wondered that she had not perceived it before, for she could now recall many signs, little heeded when they occurred, which seemed to confirm the idea. But she wondered still more how such an one as Ida, so simple and transparent in nature, could have been led to commit such an error as this betokened. Whatever the explanation might be, Mrs. Tregoning resolved that she would do all in her power to extricate Ida from the mistaken position in which she was.

When, a little later, Wilfred came to the house, and Ida with evident shrinking begged to be excused from seeing him, Mrs. Tregoning felt certain that she had arrived at a true conclusion.

So Mrs. Tregoning remained with Ida during those sad strange days whilst the silent form of the departed still lay within the house. The funeral was of the simplest order, as Nicolari would have wished, but a large concourse of old friends and acquaintances, brother artists, and others who could claim no personal knowledge of the dead, gathered about the grave in Brompton Cemetery, for the death of Antonio Nicolari caused some stir in the world of art and letters. Men were eager to appraise his worth, and the press made it widely known that a great and inspired worker had ceased from his labours.

Ida asked to be allowed to know what the newspapers were saying of her father. She read with sad pleasure some of the paragraphs written in his praise, though the words seemed to her but poor and inadequate.

"I think I am the only one who really knows how good and great he was," she said to Mrs. Tregoning.

Nicolari had appointed as his executor and his daughter's trustee an old friend and neighbour, Matthew Ansell by name, who lived in Oakley Street, and with whom Ida had been on familiar terms from her childhood. He was a middle-aged wan, somewhat eccentric in character, but kind-hearted and honest as the day, who had lived in loneliness as a widower half his life. By profession he was a barrister, but his legal duties were light enough, and would have yielded him a sorry living, had he been dependent on their profits. A man of literary and artistic tastes, he filled his house with books and pictures, and lived amongst them apparently satisfied with their companionship. He had few friends at Chelsea, and Nicolari's was the only house at which he cared to visit. But to "drop in" occasionally of an evening and enjoy a chat with Antonio had been a pleasure he had prized, and when the sculptor had begged him to become the guardian of his daughter's property he had felt unable to refuse, although he shrank from the responsibility.

Ida felt something akin to alarm when she learned from Mr. Ansell how much wealth she had inherited. The guilelessness with which she received the information, and the amazement with which she contemplated the amount of her fortune, convinced the executor that it would be necessary for him to look very closely after her interests. "She would give it all away in a week, if I let her," he said to himself. "I'll look well after the settlements before she marries that young Ormiston. I'll not take the matter so easily as her father would have done, innocent man."

To Ida's surprise, though also to her satisfaction, Mr. Ansell expressed his approval of the proposed postponement of her wedding. Wilfred naturally felt less content with the arrangement, but he could not well oppose Ida's wishes. Mrs. Ormiston thought it "just as well," as she told Mrs. Tregoning when, arriving at Cheyne Walk to pay a visit of condolence, she was received by that lady, who interposed to save Ida from the cruel kindness of her mother-in-law elect.

"They are both young and can afford to wait a year," decided Mrs. Ormiston, "and then Ida can put off her mourning and make a proper appearance as a bride. I hate those half-and-half affairs—silver-grey instead of white satin, and a bonnet instead of a wreath, whilst every one looks as sober and solemn as if it were a funeral. A wedding should be a wedding, and a funeral a funeral," continued Mrs. Ormiston, with the air of one laying down a grave moral precept.

Mrs. Tregoning could only receive these remarks in silence. She believed that a year hence Ida would still be averse to an ostentatious wedding.

"I am sorry Ida will not see me," said Mrs. Ormiston, as she rose to take leave. "Tell her she must rouse herself and not give way. I never do, though I am sure I have had troubles enough. Nicolari was an old man, and old people can't live for ever."

"And it's just as well that they can't," she added as she thought of the wealth which had come to Ida through her father's decease, and which Wilfred would share with her. "Ida must come and stay with me when she feels a little stronger, for she must know that I am her mother now as well as Wilfred's. She will like being with us, for though I say it that shouldn't, our house is a great improvement on this old-fashioned place. There are not many houses so well-furnished and fitted all through, but if you've no need to count the cost at every turn, you can make a house comfortable."

Mrs. Ormiston was not quite at her ease as she thus delivered herself, for Mrs. Tregoning's air of quiet surprise was a little trying.

Mrs. Tregoning had never before met with a woman of such pronounced vulgarity, and she could only wonder at her and say to herself, "Poor Ida! Sons are supposed to resemble their mothers in character; it is to be hoped that Mr. Ormiston is an exception to the rule."

Mrs. Ormiston was dimly aware that Ida's friend was of another order of mind to herself. The grace and dignity of Mrs. Tregoning's bearing affected her uncomfortably, but she tried to restore the balance of her self-satisfaction by observing the widow's somewhat shabby attire, and contrasting it with the magnificence of the black silk and bugles which adorned her own person, being worn as complimentary mourning.

"Ida," said Mrs. Tregoning, when, the visitors having departed, she returned to the room where the girl was, "Mrs. Ormiston would like you to stay with her as soon as you feel able."

Ida lifted her eyes with an imploring look to Mrs. Tregoning's. "Oh, you don't say so! Do you think I ought to go?"

"Not if you would rather not," said Mrs. Tregoning. "But, Ida, dear, you cannot stay on here by yourself."

"I thought—I hoped that you would stay with me," said Ida, wistfully.

"So I will, dear, for a time, if you wish it, but I have thought of another plan. You know the doctor has been urging me to go abroad for the winter. He says I should soon lose this tendency to bronchitis if I went to the south of France or to Switzerland. How would it do for you and me to go away together for the rest of the winter?"

A sudden glow of colour rose in Ida's cheek as she exclaimed earnestly: "Oh, I should like that! It is just what I have been wishing, to get away. Not that I do not love the dear old house," she added with a burst of tears, "but oh—you cannot, think what a changed place it is to me now!"

"Yes, dear, I can think," said Mrs. Tregoning, softly. "I do not forget how it was with me when my husband passed away, and I was left alone in our little home. Well, I am glad you like my suggestion; it will do me so much good to have your company. Now we must think about ways and means. I believe there are places on the Continent where we could live pretty cheaply."

"Don't let the means trouble you, please," said Ida, quickly. "You forget that I am rich. I was quite appalled when Mr. Ansell told me the amount of my fortune. I am sure I don't know what I shall do with so much money. Dear Mrs. Tregoning, please let me meet the expenses! Indeed you would be doing me a kindness!"

"No, no, my child, you are too generous," said Mrs. Tregoning, hastily. "You shall pay your share of the expense, but I cannot let you burden yourself with my maintenance."

"I thought you regarded me as a daughter," said Ida, looking pained; "there are no such things as burdens between mother and daughter."

Mrs. Tregoning smiled as she met her injured glance. "Well, well, we will see," she said; "perhaps if I get into difficulties, I will come to you to pay my bills. Ida, I have been thinking that if we went to Switzerland, we might perhaps meet with Theodore, or get him to join us somewhere. That would be such a joy to me."

"Yes; that would be very nice," said Ida, after a few moments, and flushing a little as she spoke.

No more was said on the subject then, but it was discussed on subsequent occasions. And the idea of going abroad with Mrs. Tregoning brought Ida the first gleam of hope she had known since her father's death.

Wilfred was inclined to oppose the plan. He would have preferred that Ida should make a long stay at his parents' home. But when Mrs. Tregoning represented to him how desirable it was that Ida should have a thorough change, he felt constrained to acquiesce with the best grace he could in an arrangement which was so obviously for Ida's good. The same consideration secured Marie's approval, though at first that good woman was disposed to be somewhat jealous of Mrs. Tregoning, and thought it hard that Ida should go away with her, whilst she and Fritz were left to take care of the house and to attend to Mr. Ormiston's wants when he was working in the studio.

After much thought, Montreux was fixed upon as a place where the two ladies might pleasantly spend the early months of the year. Ida felt like one in a dream as she prepared to start on the journey to Switzerland, such a feeling of unreality hung over her. By this time she had expected to be Wilfred's wife, but instead everything was changed. Her father had passed from earth, and she preparing to leave for an indefinite period the dear old home.

On the evening before her departure, Ida went to take a last look round the studio. It was the first time she had entered the room since her father's death. She had wished to be alone, and was somewhat dismayed on entering to find that Wilfred was still there. He was not working, but sauntering idly about, and, as Ida perceived with a quick, sharp sense of annoyance, he was smoking. Antonio had permitted no one to smoke in his loved studio, and Wilfred would not have dared thus openly to enjoy his cigar in his master's lifetime. It seemed to Ida that Wilfred showed a want of due respect for her father's memory in allowing himself this indulgence now. It was a little matter, but it touched her keenly. Wilfred had no nice feeling, she said to herself. She would have retreated had it been possible, but Wilfred had caught sight of her, and, quite unconscious of giving offence, he greeted her cheerfully:

"That's right, Ida; I'm glad you've come. I have been wishing to have a chat with you. Don't stand at the door; come in."

"No, thank you; I will come at another time, as you are smoking," said Ida, coldly.

"Why, whatever do you mean? I never knew you object to smoking before. Are you getting squeamish? But I'll put out my cigar if you wish."

Ida made no reply, and Wilfred, perhaps guessing why she objected on this occasion, slowly and reluctantly extinguished his cigar.

Ida stood gazing mournfully around the studio. Tears rose to her eyes as they rested on the familiar forms which her father's hands had moulded with such loving care. The Apollo and the Psyche were no longer there; they, had been sent to their destination a few weeks before her father's death. But the clay models from which they had been copied remained. Ida looked on them in silence.

A rush of painful thoughts made it impossible to speak, but could she have expressed what was passing in her mind, she would hardly have chosen to confide it to Wilfred. After his fashion, he had been very kind to her since her bereavement, and had tried to cheer her according to his notions of what would be cheering, but his efforts had not been very successful. The sympathy which Ida's nature craved it was not in his power to give.

And now, as she stood sadly musing on the past, he startled her by a suggestion which made painfully apparent how far apart they were in heart and mind, and how incapable he was of entering into her deepest thoughts and feelings.

"I say, Ida," he exclaimed, in ringing boyish tones, "have you thought what a jolly lot of money all this is worth?"

A sweep of his hand towards the sculptures and models ranged around the room made clear what he meant by "all this."

Ida's dark eyes looked at him in wonder. She had hardly taken in the meaning of his words.

"Have you not heard what prices your father's work is fetching now? It is always the case when an artist of any note dies. The sculptures are worth more than double what they were. One or two of them have changed hands of late, and they have sold for rare prices. You remember the Iphigenia which Mr. Hunter had? He has sold it for two thousand pounds. Fancy two thousand pounds for a little thing like that. Father says that now is your time, if you want to make money. He says that if he were you, he would sell off every thing that is here—clay models and all. You would make a fortune if you did so. I really should advise you to think of it, Ida."

But Wilfred quailed somewhat as he said the last words, and felt ashamed of himself, he scarcely knew why, as he met the angry, scornful fire that had kindled in Ida's eyes.

"Wilfred," she exclaimed, with more indignation in tone and glance than he could have believed her capable of, "how can you suggest such a thing? What do you think of me? Sell my father's models, the beautiful forms which I have seen grow under his hands, things which are like part of my life, and which have been made inexpressibly sacred to me by his loss! If it were possible for me to consider how to turn my great loss to paltry gain, I should hate and despise myself."

"Well, I never! What a fuss, to be sure, just because I happened to make a businesslike remark!" exclaimed Wilfred, nettled by Ida's words, for he was by no means the most patient of mortals. "Women are such unreasonable, sentimental beings. Why shouldn't you make money by these things when you have the chance? They are of no good to you, and the money would be."

"No good!" repeated Ida, with flashing eyes. "Is it not good to cherish the links which bind us to a happy, holy past! I would not for any money part with these things which have for me such sacred associations. Oh, Wilfred, you cannot really think that money is the highest good in life?"

"It is all very well to pretend to despise money," said Wilfred, sulkily, "but no one can get on without it."

"Of course we need enough to supply our necessities," said Ida. "If I were in deep poverty, I might feel that it was my duty to sell off everything, but since it is not so, since I have all that I want, and more than I want, there is no occasion to think of it. One may pay too dearly for money it seems to me, for what, after all, can it do for us? The best things of life—love, faith, friendship, sympathy—are without money and without price."

"Dear me! That sounds like a sermon," said Wilfred, satirically. "Well, I am sorry I offended you by my suggestion. It does not matter to me whether you sell the things or keep them."

"I should think it ought to matter a good deal to you," said Ida, reproachfully. "I should have thought it would have helped you in your work to look upon my father's models. Surely you could not work so well in a bare studio."

Wilfred flushed uneasily and made no reply. Ida, indeed, hardly gave him time for further development of his views. With head erect and even more than her usual dignity of bearing, she quitted the studio, and Wilfred was left to his own reflections.

The first of these was that he had had no idea Ida possessed such a temper, and that such power of expressing indignation as she had displayed was not a trait of character to be desired in a wife. The second was that Ida would probably have been still more indignant had she known what had passed between him and his father that day. She would certainly not approve of the tacit promise he had given his father, but happily there was no need to confide it to her yet.

Ida had gone away in much agitation of mind. Never had she felt more vexed with Wilfred, though his power of annoying her had increased ten-fold since their engagement. Even Mrs. Tregoning could see that something had occurred to disturb her greatly, and guessed that Wilfred was the source of the trouble. But the questions on which Mrs. Tregoning ventured elicited no information. Ida could not confide to her friend her secret revulsion from Wilfred, and the dread with which she looked forward to spending her life with him.

Wilfred was humble and gentle in his manner to Ida when they met on the following day. He begged her to forgive and forget his inconsiderate words, and Ida received his apologies most kindly, showing no trace of resentment. He accompanied her and Mrs. Tregoning to the station, and saw them off by the Dover express. No one could have suspected that there was any breach between him and Ida who saw the friendly way in which they parted, but yet Ida felt that she could not soon forget the revelation of himself which Wilfred had unconsciously made to her on the previous day. She shrank from confessing the truth to herself but it was with a sense of relief that she looked back on Wilfred as the train bore her out of the station. She was glad that he was not going abroad with them.

### CHAPTER XXIII.

IDA SHOWS HERSELF A TRUE FRIEND.

EVEN in mid-winter our travellers found Switzerland a land of beauty. Ida had not before visited the country, and her introduction to its scenery on the shores of the Lake of Geneva more than surpassed her expectations. The winter season gives its own charm to the lovely lake. When the mountains are robed in snow, the lake, in vivid contrast, glows with a deeper, purer cobalt, and the sunshine has a dazzling radiance far exceeding in its ethereal purity the brilliance of summer. To Ida, with her innate love of the beautiful, the glory and the loveliness which met her gaze on every side as she explored the neighbourhood of Montreux were a source of exquisite delight. Here was the balm her sorrowing heart needed. Well says the poet:

If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou wouldst forget.
If thou wouldst read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills! No tears
Dim the sweet look which Nature wears.

Though it was not the season when "woods are green, and winds are soft and low," Nature, "the good old nurse," did not fail Ida in her need. At all times she has a precious message for those who can understand her teaching, for she bears witness to the presence and power of a Mighty Spirit whose name is Love. In the midst of her mourning for the past and her fears for the future, Ida could hear the still soft whisper "God is love," and hope dawned anew within her as sunlight breaks forth after rain.

Mrs. Tregoning and Ida had established themselves in one of the many "pensions" at Montreux. The house stood in a pretty sloping garden, and commanded a charming view of the lake. Here they passed very quiet but peaceful days. Mrs. Tregoning was still somewhat of an invalid, and Ida, by nature "of a ministering spirit," found pleasure in waiting on her with the thoughtful devotion with which she had cared for her father's needs.

"I know now what it would be to have a daughter," Mrs. Tregoning would say, as she gratefully accepted her services. "I wish I could keep you as my daughter," she said once impulsively, "but I am afraid Mr. Ormiston would object to that."

Ida smiled but faintly, and there fell on her face the shadow Mrs. Tregoning had learned to look for whenever allusion was made to Wilfred.

They had been a fortnight at Montreux, when they were joined by Theodore Tregoning. Ida, she knew not why, had looked forward with trembling to his coming. She need not have feared. He met her with all the old friendliness, and she felt the comfort of his sympathy as she was led to talk to him of her father's last days, and the mingled emotions of grief and joy which had come to her with his departure. He seemed so perfectly to understand her that she could say to him what she could not have said to any one else.

Yet Tregoning was changed, and with a deeper change than was visible at the first glance. It was not merely that he looked thinner, graver, and was bronzed with travel. Ida was aware of a more subtle change, which she could not define, not recognising it as the outward expression of the fuller life which a sad experience brings to all souls that are not ignoble. But one thing was clear to her. He had conquered his sorrow and regained serenity of mind. Not that his disappointment was forgotten, it had burned itself too deeply into his soul for that. The sorrow abode with him, but could no longer enthral his heart, and spiritual influences were slowly transmuting his loss to gain. For he was no longer restless and hopeless; faith had found anchorage again, and he could look forward with hope to a future of work, that best provision of God for man. All of doubt that remained was as to the direction in which he should seek work.

During the first few days, Theodore Tregoning said nothing of his plans (if he had formed any) to his mother, though she, poor woman, could hardly conceal her anxiety to learn what he meant to do. It was to Ida that he first spoke of his future. He was walking with her one day along the pleasant road that leads to the Castle of Chillon. It was a clear, frosty day, too cold for Mrs. Tregoning, who had preferred to remain indoors, but to these two, the keen air was delightfully invigorating, and their spirits rose as they walked on, observing with pleasure each new glimpse of lake and mountains which the windings of the road revealed.

But presently silence fell upon them as they drew near to the grim grey pile that overhangs the lake. The thoughts of each had wandered from the present, when suddenly Theodore said—

"Miss Nicolari, I have to thank you."

"To thank me," she repeated, in wonder; "for what?"

"For a word spoken in season," he said. "You did well to remind me in my despair of the One Divine Life of patient, willing suffering. You were right; in the light of the cross all pain becomes endurable. Your words helped me when I thought of them, for my faith in Jesus was real, however false my other professions."

"I knew it was, I had no doubt of that," said Ida. "And now, if I may ask, what are you going to do. Are you still unwilling to be a clergyman?"

"Most certainly," he said firmly; "I ought never to have dreamed of taking such duties on myself. Not that I do not esteem it a high and holy calling—the highest and holiest, perhaps—but not for me. I must help my fellow-men in other ways."

"Will you not help them by the work of the healer?" asked Ida, eagerly. "Excuse me, but you told me once that you had a great desire to study medicine. It seem to me that for a Christian man it is a most noble calling, for it is one that must involve a close following in the steps of Him who went about 'healing all manner of sickness.'"

"You are right," he said, and his face clouded as he spoke; "it is noble work, and work to which I would fain give myself, but it is impossible."

"Impossible!" she exclaimed. "Oh, why?"

His face flushed, and he was silent for a few moments ere he answered quietly:

"For a very simple reason. I should need to study for some years ere I could begin to practise, and I have no money to provide for my maintenance during those years or meet the cost of my medical studies."

"Oh, is that all?" exclaimed Ida, in a tone of relief.

"All!" he returned. "I think it is hindrance enough."

Ida was silent. An idea had occurred to her, a delightful idea, if only she were sure that she had any right to entertain it. Her mind worked busily as she tried to bring this idea into an agreeable shape for presentation to her companion.

"The only thing before me is to emigrate," said Tregoning, after a minute. "There is work to be done out in the colonies, I suppose, and I am ready to do any honest work that falls to my hands. I should not be too proud to enter the lowest rank of toilers."

"Oh, no, no, you must not think of that!" exclaimed Ida. "For you, with your tastes and education, so fitted as you are for scientific work, it would be ten thousand pities. You ought to devote yourself to medical science, Mr. Tregoning; that is your true sphere."

"It does not seem so, since the entrance to it is barred against me," he replied, almost impatiently; "it is vain to talk of what can never be. There is no profession open to me save the one that I renounce. My relatives will never forgive me for throwing up the profession for which they have had me educated. But even if they were willing to help me further, I could not bring myself to accept more from them."

"But you have other friends," began Ida, tremulously.

"None from whom I could accept pecuniary aid," he said proudly, as a dim suspicion of what was working in her mind dawned upon his.

Ida's heart beat fast. It was so hard to say what she wanted to say. She hardly knew whether she ought to say it, but in the end, her great longing to give help got the better of her discretion.

"Mr. Tregoning," she said falteringly, "don't you think it is rather unkind to say that? Why should money be the one thing which it is impossible to receive from a friend? A picture, a book, a piece of plate can be received with pleasure, but a gift of money, though it may be just what is most needed, is regarded as a humiliation. It does not seem reasonable to me."

"Perhaps not, Miss Nicolari," said Tregoning, rather stiffly, "but still a man's pride does recoil from the thought of accepting money."

"And yet you said just now that you were not proud," said Ida, looking up at him with a smile.

"Not too proud to work with my hands, I meant," he replied; "I fear I cannot claim exemption from pride of every kind."

"Would you if you could?" she asked. "I fancy that pride is a fault in which many persons take pride."

Their eyes met, and he smiled.

Ida took encouragement from the smile to say hurriedly, almost breathlessly, "Mr. Tregoning, I wish you would listen to a common-sense view of the matter."

"I will listen with pleasure to any view you may please to unfold," he replied.

"Then I want you to take this into consideration. You know how good Mrs. Tregoning is to me, and how lonely, how unhappy I should be but for her kindness. She is good enough to say that she looks upon me as a daughter. Now, if she can regard me as a daughter, is it impossible, is it too much to ask, that you would look upon me as a sister? If you could not allow a friend the privilege of helping you, you would not refuse it to a sister. And indeed, Mr. Tregoning," she went on hurriedly, her voice trembling with eagerness in her anxiety lest he should check her ere she had said all that she wished to say, "I have more money than I want, more than I can possibly spend on myself; you would make me so happy if you would let me—"

Intimidated by his look, she paused, and he would hear no more.

"I cannot think of such a thing—I cannot, indeed," he said earnestly. "It is most kind and generous of you to wish it, but it is impossible. Pray do not try to persuade me."

"It is because I am a woman," said Ida, sorely disappointed. "You would have let my father help you, perhaps, but you would count it a disgrace to receive such aid from me. I can see that you feel insulted by the bare suggestion."

His flushed countenance and knitted brows certainly favoured this idea, but he hastened to repudiate it.

"Not insulted, Miss Nicolari. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could regard as an insult the noble proof of your friendship you have given me. But I could not without pain and shame allow you to act as you propose."

"You do not care what pain you give me!" exclaimed Ida, tears springing to her eyes. "You fear to incur an obligation, but you would be doing me a service if you made use of some of my money for so good an end, Mr. Tregoning. I am sure that, as physician, or surgeon, or oculist, to whatever end you might direct your studies, your knowledge would become a blessing to many. And when I think that you might be the means of saving some from the blindness which fell upon my father in the midst of his work and so sorely tried his brave spirit, I feel it would be a privilege to have even the slightest share in promoting such a result. Oh, I should be so glad if you would allow some of my superabundant wealth to be employed for your medical education. I know it is what my father would have wished."

"You are very good," he said, not unmoved by her words. "I am sorry that I cannot see the matter as you do; I really could not allow you to take so much upon you. Why, my training would cost some hundreds of pounds."

"What if it did?" exclaimed Ida, warmly. "What do a few pounds more or less matter when I have plenty? Oh, you would make me so happy, if you would agree to my wish! There is nothing I care for more than that your life should be good and noble, a gain to the world, as it would be if you could follow your vocation."

The wonder with which Theodore looked at her recalled Ida to herself. Had she said more than she should? Her heart beat more rapidly under the influence of this sudden fear, and she looked away from him in confusion.

"You are very good," Tregoning said again, rather unsteadily; "I am sorry it cannot be as you wish. But indeed I could not take advantage of your noble self-forgetfulness, your utter unworldliness."

Ida made no reply, and they walked on in silence. A painful silence it was to her. She half wished her words unsaid, feeling that she had managed badly, and had expressed too much or too little, she hardly knew which. But surely he would not misunderstand her? She had not said more than sisterly affection could warrant. Loving Mrs. Tregoning as she did, how could she fail to feel an interest in her son, and a desire to help him?

As she asked herself these questions, Ida was observing Theodore Tregoning with some uneasiness. What did his grave, downcast looks and furrowed brow betoken? As she watched him, she grew more and more uneasy, till the question forced itself from her lips, "I have not offended you, have I, Mr. Tregoning?"

Her words roused him from deep thought. He smiled as he looked up and met her anxious glance.

"I should prove myself unworthy of your friendship, Miss Nicolari, if I could take offence at your most kind and generous proposal. Offence, indeed!—If you could read my heart, you would know that my feelings are as far as possible removed from resentment."

"I am so glad!" exclaimed Ida, impulsively. "Oh, I wish you would think more of what I have said."

"I will think more of it," he said, "but I can promise nothing."

"Still, I hope you will come to see what a service you would do me by yielding to my wish," said Ida.

He smiled again, but shook his head. Ida's heart was lighter now, though Tregoning relapsed into thought and said little during the remainder of their walk. They went as far as the entrance to the castle courtyard, and then turned back. Ida had already paid a visit to the gloomy prison, and had no wish to visit it now.

Very lovely were lake and mountains as they returned to Montreux. The day was dying, and the peaks of the Dents du Midi were flushed with the purest rose-colour. But whilst enjoying the lovely vision, Tregoning was mindful of the dangers of the chill that follows the sunset; he would not allow Ida to linger. At swiftest pace they gained the little town, and arrived at the "pension," just in time for the evening meal.

Although she had suffered disappointment, Ida was happy that evening. It was pleasant to know that Tregoning regarded her as a friend, although he had refused to let her help him in the way she wished. Ida was not without hope that he would think better of his decision.

Ida hardly saw Theodore on the following day, for he went off for a long, solitary ramble. But the next afternoon, as she was walking on the terrace at the foot of the sloping garden, she was joined by Tregoning. The terrace commanded a fine view of the lake, and was a pleasant promenade when the sun shone on it. But Ida knew, when she saw Theodore approaching, that he had not come there merely to enjoy the brightness of the afternoon. In his usual direct manner, he hastened to make his purpose known.

"I am glad to find you here alone, Miss Nicolari, for I want to say a few words to you about what we were speaking of the day before yesterday."

"Oh, have you thought better of it?" exclaimed Ida eagerly. "Are you going to be so good, so kind, as to agree to my wish?"

"I don't know where the goodness and kindness would be," he replied, with a smile, "but I have thought more of your most generous proposal, and, though I cannot do exactly as you wish, I have thought of a way in which I might perhaps avail myself of your help."

"And what is that?" asked Ida, quickly.

"It has occurred to me," he began with some hesitation, "that if you would lend me the sum necessary to start me in the medical profession, on the understanding that I should pay it off with interest for its use as soon as I possibly could after I began to practise, I would thankfully accept your assistance."

"You mean that you will consent to nothing but a formal business transaction," said Ida, flushing as she spoke. "You are not a good friend, Mr. Tregoning. You do not see that true generosity may be displayed in receiving quite as much as in giving."

"I am sorry if I seem to you ungenerous," he replied, "but indeed, Miss Nicolari, I shall be deeply grateful to you if you will help me in the way I suggest."

"If you will not let me help you in any other way, I must consent," said Ida, "but please do not think about interest. I cannot go in for usury in that way."

"I have stated the conditions on which I can accept your aid," he said gravely.

"You must have it as you will, then," said Ida, unable to hide that she was wounded. "But, Mr. Tregoning, never lay claim to humility again; you are the proudest man I know."

Tregoning laughed, and, in spite of her vexation, Ida felt obliged to join in the laugh. Then his face grew grave, and looked, Ida thought, beautiful in its earnestness, as he said, his full-toned voice expressing deep feeling: "Whether you can believe it or not, Miss Nicolari, I can assure you that I never felt more humble and grateful than at this moment. I cannot tell you what you are doing for me. I thought I had crushed this hope, I thought I was ready for any work God might send me, but this is a happiness I could not have dreamed of; it makes life a blessed gift to me onto more. I cannot thank you, but some day perhaps may be able to show you that your goodness has not been thrown away."

He had taken her hand in his, and he held it whilst he spoke, releasing it at last with a friendly pressure.

Ida felt the warmth of his gratitude somewhat overpowering.

"I am very glad," she said confusedly. "I will write to Mr. Ansell and tell him. He will know how to arrange."

"Thank you, if you will be so kind," said Tregoning. "I think I had better call and have a talk with Mr. Ansell when I get to London. I shall have learned by that time how I can accomplish my purpose with the least possible expense."

"Very well, if you would like to do so," said Ida, wishing with all her heart that she could insist on his accepting a gift instead of a loan.

And then they went indoors and joined Mrs. Tregoning, who had just roused from her afternoon nap. Nothing was said to her then of the plan that had been made for Theodore's future. He reserved the news till he was alone with his mother that night, after Ida had retired to her room.

What he told her had the effect of sending Mrs. Tregoning to Ida in an ecstasy of gratitude. Ida was in bed, but not asleep. She was almost alarmed when Mrs. Tregoning knocked at her door and excitedly begged admittance. Nor did her friend's demeanour, as she rushed in and impulsively threw her arms around her, at once allay her fears.

"Oh, Ida, my precious child, how can I thank you for your kindness!" sobbed Mrs. Tregoning. "It would have broken my heart if he had left me and gone abroad! How good of you to come forward to help him!"

"Oh, is that all?" exclaimed Ida, relieved. "You have nothing to thank me for. It is merely a business compact that I have entered into with Mr. Tregoning. I fancy that I have hit upon a very good investment, and I do not know that I shall not take to usury in the future till I become a feminine Shylock. So pray don't talk about kindness."

"It is all very well to laugh, child, but I know what you have done," cried Mrs. Tregoning amidst the kisses and caresses she was lavishing on Ida. "You have saved me from misery, and you have made him happy. He has gained his heart's desire now, for he had always such a longing to study medicine."

Had Mrs. Tregoning been better acquainted with Shakspeare's characters, it might have occurred to her that it was not Shylock, but Portia, whom Ida resembled, in her eagerness to employ her wealth in securing the happiness of her friends. There were tears of joy in Ida's eyes after Mrs. Tregoning had bidden her good-night and gone away. She could not sleep for a long time, but she had such happy thoughts that it was worth while to lie awake for the sake of enjoying them.

### CHAPTER XXIV.

A MEETING AND A PARTING.

TWO days later Theodore Tregoning took his departure for London, and again time glided on in smooth unbroken flow with Mrs. Tregoning and Ida. Yet the uneventful days were not felt to be dull. Ida, accustomed all her life to adapt herself to her father's ways, had no craving for the excitements dear to most girls of her age. She was content with the society of Mrs. Tregoning and such acquaintances as they made in the "pension," most of whom were elderly people or invalids.

It was enough for her to rest in that quiet lovely spot, where almost every day revealed some new beauty in lake or mountains. Now it was her delight to watch the furious onset of one of the storms which break so suddenly upon the lake, to mark the purple black clouds gathering about the mountain peaks, to see these clouds rent with lightning or pouring forth a volley of hail, whilst the lake, lashed into sudden fury, foamed and raged in angry waves, flooding the little quay at Montreux and sweeping away every object within its reach. Or she would watch the gradual subsidence of the storm, and see the clouds break up and disperse, and gleams of sunlight come slanting across the lake, alternating with the shadows of the mountains, so that the rippling surface seemed streaked with pale blue and purple.

It was pleasant too, as the weeks went on, to mark the stealthy steps with which the Spring advanced, till the supreme hour when, abandoning her coyness, she took the world by surprise as she stepped forth unveiled in all her maiden purity and tender loveliness. To Ida, the spring in Switzerland, so far transcending in beauty the spring of our sterner clime, came as a revelation. She had always loved the blossoming time of the year, but she had never seen such spring radiance as rejoiced her eyes at Montreux—the glowing green of the new grass, the myriads of bright-hued flowers scattered everywhere, the fruit-blossoms, the flashing streams, and the purple slopes and eternal snows of the mountains forming the grandest background to every picture.

They had intended to return to England early in the spring, but found themselves of one mind in desiring to remain as long as possible on the shore of the beauteous lake. There had been some talk of Wilfred's joining them for a week or two, and then escorting them home, but when May came, he wrote to say that he was too busy to take a holiday at that time, and expressed a strong wish that Ida should not much longer delay her return. Ida was glad to learn that Wilfred was busy, for she had feared he would relax his industry during her absence. His letters had come somewhat irregularly, for Wilfred was not more steady as a correspondent than he was in the performance of other duties. Mrs. Tregoning observed that Ida did not appear troubled by their infrequency, though the letters themselves sometimes had power to disturb her serenity. More pleasure was to be drawn from Theodore's letters, bright, cheerful letters, full of the enthusiasm with which he was commencing his new course of study.

June had begun ere Mrs. Tregoning and Ida could make up their minds to go back to England. Ida's heart shrank from the thought of returning to the house at Cheyne Walk, which no longer seemed a home.

"I could not bear it if you were not going to be with me," she said to her friend.

For, after some hesitation, Mrs. Tregoning had yielded to Ida's eager request that she would make her home with her for the future. The lodgings at Kensington had been given up when Mrs. Tregoning decided to go abroad. She had meant to look for less expensive ones on her return to London, for she wished to live with the strictest economy till her son's medical training was completed, in order that she might give him all the help in her power.

Theodore had found modest lodgings for himself in the neighbourhood of the hospital to which the medical school he had joined was attached. It therefore seemed a happy arrangement for Mrs. Tregoning that she should share Ida's home, though it was no consideration of her own convenience which influenced the widow in her decision, but her conviction that Ida really needed her and would be happier for her presence.

Ida had written to tell Wilfred that they would reach London on Thursday evening, but by the chances of travel, it happened that they arrived in Paris in time for a boat express which she had deemed it impossible that they could catch. Wishing to make the journey as expeditiously as possible, they pressed on, and came into London on the morning instead of the evening of Thursday. There was of course no one to meet them at the station, but that mattered little. They secured a cab, found their luggage, and were soon on their way to Cheyne Walk.

Ida could not arrive too soon for Marie, and the ecstatic delight with which her old nurse welcomed her gave a flavour of home-coming even to this sad return.

"How could you stay away so long, Miss Ida?" said Marie, trying to speak reproachfully, whilst her face shone with joy. "The house has seemed silent as a tomb, and I felt ready to die of melancholy, left here by myself."

"Why, you cannot have been so lonely, Marie," said Ida; "you have had Fritz with you."

"Fritz!" repeated Marie, making a grimace and shrugging her shoulders. "And what sort of company do you suppose Fritz to be? I don't believe he would say a dozen words in the day of his own accord, and if he did, they would not be spoken to his wife."

"But you have had Mr. Wilfred here too," she said.

"Oh, Mr. Wilfred—" Marie began with a toss of the head, but, thinking better of what she had been about to say, she checked herself and turned to look after the luggage.

"Why do you speak so, Marie?" asked Ida, hurriedly. "Is there anything the matter with Wilfred? Is he not in the studio now?"

"Mr. Wilfred is quite well, I believe," said Marie, curtly, "but he is not here now. He did not expect you till this evening."

Ida looked grave and troubled. She was still in the hall; she turned and took a few steps down the passage leading to the studio.

Marie hurried after her and laid her hand on Ida's arm.

"Not now, Miss Ida. Don't go there now," she pleaded. "Wait till you have had some refreshment and rested yourself a little."

Ida yielded without much reluctance. She dreaded the sorrowful emotions which the sight of the studio would recall. Mindful of the duties of hospitality, she hastened to see if Mrs. Tregoning would be comfortable in the room prepared for her. Then she made Marie happy by accepting her ministrations, and at last, obedient to her nurse's wish, she lay down to rest till the afternoon.

At five o'clock she came downstairs, feeling refreshed, and Marie not being in the way, she went at once to the studio, half hoping that she might find Wilfred at work there. To her surprise the door of the studio was locked, but the key was at hand, and after one or two attempts, for the lock had grown stiff, she succeeded in opening the door. Even as she entered the room, she was struck with its unused appearance. It was in perfect order; Fritz had seen to that. But the tidiness was evidence that little work had been done there of late.

Ida looked around her in dismay. Was there absolutely nothing new to greet her eyes? Yes, here was something fresh—the bust of a popular actress. Ida tried hard to view it favourably, but in vain. The work bore signs of hurried execution and commonplace conception. It lacked the idealising touch apparent in all her father's work.

And what was this half-finished model?—A Tyrolese peasant, perhaps. But Wilfred must have lost interest in his conception ere it was fully developed. Ida could see that the work had long been abandoned, and she had a conviction that it would never be finished.

A deep sadness fell upon her, a sadness embittered by self-reproach. With a pang the thought smote her that she had done wrong in going abroad and leaving Wilfred to himself. If she had remained at home, Wilfred would probably have come to the house every day and worked steadily in the studio. Yes, she had done wrong. She had been actuated by selfish motives; she had not asked herself what her father would have wished her to do, she had not thought how she might best incite Wilfred to industry and aid him in his work.

Upbraiding herself thus, Ida paced to and fro between the statues, her mind possessed by a distress too profound to find relief in tears.

Suddenly she heard the door behind her open, and turning saw Wilfred.

"How do you do, Ida?" he said, coming forward with a joyous air of welcome. "If I were not so glad to see you, I should feel inclined to scold you for stealing a march on me in this way, and robbing me of my right to give you the first welcome."

Ida said not a word, nor did her face reflect the smile on his. She was looking at him with an anxious, searching glance, and scarcely heard his words. Passively she let him take her hand and kiss her.

"How cold she was!" he thought. How unlike all other girls that he knew!

"Are you not glad to see me, Ida?" he asked reproachfully, his voice betraying some uneasiness. "Have you ceased to care for me whilst you have been away?"

"Oh no, Wilfred," she replied; "I care more than ever for you and for your work. But I am so disappointed. I thought you had done so much, and I see scarcely anything here."

Wilfred coloured. "Oh, you must not judge by what you see here," he said carelessly; "I have been doing some little things at home of late. I had not the heart to come here every day whilst you were away."

Ida looked at him in wonder. She knew it was impossible for him to do anything in the way of sculpture in the house at Sloane Square. In truth, the things of which Wilfred had spoken were no more than some little clay images which he had made for the amusement of a small niece of his.

He was pleased with his own adroitness in thus making them serve for an excuse.

"I ought not to have stayed away so long," said Ida, regretfully. "But, Wilfred, what have you been doing? Have you sketched any new designs?"

"Well, no," said Wilfred, reddening still more; "to tell you the truth, Ida, I have had little time for work of late. I have been helping my father at the office. He needs my help, and, as I am his only son, he has a right to expect that I should give it to him."

"But surely he would not wish you to neglect your own work—the art to which you have devoted yourself?" said Ida, full of wonder. "And what help could you give at the office? I thought you knew nothing about business."

"I am not too old to learn," replied Wilfred. "I am afraid you will not like it, Ida—but the fact is, I have consented to take a share in the business. The poor old governor was quite breaking down through overwork, and if I had not joined the firm they would have been obliged to put some one else in as partner, and that would have caused a reduction of our profits. The mater and the pater both urged it upon me. I really could not refuse, don't you see?"

"I do not see anything; I cannot understand," faltered Ida. "You do not mean that you are not going to be a sculptor? You cannot mean to abandon your art?"

"Of course I shall not give up sculpture altogether," said Wilfred. "My father does not expect me to stick very closely to business. I shall have abundant leisure for art. And really, Ida, there is not much money to be made by sculpture nowadays. Things are not as they were when your father was a young man."

"Don't compare yourself with him, Wilfred, pray!" exclaimed Ida, warmly. "Was it for money that my father worked? It makes me sick to hear you talk as if money were everything. I can hardly believe now that I understand you. Do you mean henceforth to be a man of business, and to practise sculpture only as a diversion in your hours of leisure?"

"Yes, that is what I mean," said Wilfred, "though I should not put it quite as you do."

"I cannot believe it of you, Wilfred!" cried Ida, her tones ringing with pain. "I never thought that you could be so false—false to yourself, and false to him whom you professed to honour as your master. Have you forgotten the hopes my father built upon your future, the promises with which you cheered him in his hours of darkness and despair? He trusted that he should live on in you, his pupil; he believed that your skill would equal if not excel his own and that you would extend and deepen the fame which he so justly gained. Oh! How can you bear to be so faithless to the dead?"

Wilfred flushed hotly. He turned from her and walked to a little distance, as though he could not trust himself to speak, and his tones were full of impatience when, after a few moments, he said: "I tell you, Ida, I am not; going to give up Art altogether. I still hope to pursue it in a way that will justify your father's high opinion of me. And when you remind me of my duty to the dead, you forget that I have also a duty to the living."

There was a pause of a few moments after these words were uttered. Ida was scanning his face earnestly, thoughtfully. Wilfred's eyes fell before her searching glance.

"If only I could believe that you were actuated by a sense of duty in making this decision, it would be easier to bear the pain of the disappointment," she said mournfully at last. "But, Wilfred, I thought that both you and your parents had counted the cost long ago, when first you resolved to become a sculptor. It seems to me folly, and worse than folly, to turn back now. What sort of work can you hope to do as an amateur? You must know that you cannot truly serve Art with a divided mind. Have you not often heard my father say that Art demands the whole of a man? If you do as you propose, your life will be a failure. You will neither be a good artist nor a good man of business. Oh, Wilfred, think more of it ere you throw away the grandest possibility of your life! If, as I fear, it is the thought of money-making that tempts you, ask yourself if it is not possible to pay too high a price for wealth."

"It is too late now," said Wilfred, sulkily; "I cannot go back from my word. The deeds of partnership are signed and sealed, and everything arranged. You seem horrified at what I have done, Ida, but I am not the only man who has seen fit to abandon the profession he first chose. There's that fellow Tregoning. I suppose you know that he has given up his curacy at St. Angela's, and has begun to study medicine?"

"Yes, but his case is very different," said Ida, quickly.

"I cannot see that it is different," returned Wilfred. "Most people would think a man very wrong to forsake the clerical office after he had taken holy orders."

Ida made no reply. She did not care to discuss with Wilfred Theodore Tregoning's conduct. But after a minute she said earnestly:

"It seems to me, Wilfred, that you have a precious talent entrusted to you by God, and that you will be burying that talent in the earth if you give yourself to a life of business. To follow Art, and by means of Art, the handmaid of Religion, to lead men's spirits beyond all Art to the Supreme Good, the one Eternal source of light and beauty, would be to live a grand and noble life. How can you choose money-making in preference to such a life?"

"There is no sin in making money," said Wilfred; "and it is not impossible for men of business to lead good and noble lives."

"Certainly it is not," said Ida; "you know I do not think that. It is right and good for many men to serve God in business callings, but you, I think, have had another call. But it is vain to argue about it. Wilfred, if you can honestly tell me that you feel it to be your duty to renounce the idea of being an artist, I will urge you no further."

"But I mean to be an artist still," said Wilfred, with a smile that seemed to show all the weakness of his character. "I hope yet to do much work in this room, work that you will be forced to admire."

"Not in this room, Wilfred," said Ida, quickly.

"Why not here?" he asked in wonder.

"My father's studio is sacred to true and holy work," said Ida, her head erect, her eyes flashing with strong emotion; "I will have no half-hearted work done here. You have shown yourself unworthy of the confidence my father reposed in you, and I cannot let you fill his place."

Wilfred was speechless from pure astonishment. He had come to look upon the house and studio at Cheyne Walk almost as if they belonged to himself. It was not pleasant to be thus reminded that they were Ida's property.

He had not a word to say, and after a minute, Ida added: "You do not imagine, Wilfred, that things can be as they have been between you and me?"

"Why should they not?" he asked, in a voice that was not quite steady. "You do not surely mean that you will break off the engagement?"

"Do you not see that it is annulled?" she asked quietly. "Our engagement was made with the understanding that you would live here, devoting yourself to the sculptor's calling. You were to take my father's name, and if possible win for it a new claim to the world's esteem. Could my father have foreseen that you would throw aside your art and take to a business life, he would never have desired our engagement—of that I am sure."

"Still, an engagement is an engagement!" exclaimed Wilfred, hotly. "And you, Ida, with your strict notions of truth and honour, cannot break your word to me."

"Am I alone bound to keep faith?" she asked. "Have you not broken your promises? Have you not been faithless to the dead? You have no right to demand that I should hold to my side of the agreement when you have failed to keep yours. You did not consult me ere you made this change in your life. Wilfred, whenever I have thought of our life together, it has always been in connection with the art to which my father consecrated his life, and to which I believed that you had devoted your heart and life. I could not conceive of our being united under other circumstances. Yes, I feel that I am justified in considering our engagement at an end."

"Oh, Ida, you do not mean it!" he pleaded. "You cannot be so cruel!"

"I think you have generally found that I mean what I say," she replied, calmly and sadly.

And he knew that when she spoke in that quiet, firm tone, it was vain to appeal against her decision.

"And indeed, Wilfred," she added tremulously, "I think it is better we should not marry. I felt before, and now feel more than ever, that there would be no true sympathy, no harmony in our lives."

But Wilfred could not quietly accept her decision. He flamed up in sudden anger, like the petulant, self-willed individual he was.

"You may put it as you will, Ida, but I say that it is horridly mean of you to throw me over like this, after making me believe for so long that we should be married in the autumn. But I know what it is—you have cast me off for the sake of Tregoning. You care for no one now except him and his mother."

A deep crimson flush rose in Ida's pale face. She gave him one flashing, indignant glance and passed swiftly from the room ere he could say another word.

"Ida!" he exclaimed, springing after her. "Do come back; do, just for a moment. I have something more to say to you."

But she passed on without even deigning to look back at him, and Wilfred knew that she had spoken her last word on the subject of their engagement. He gave a groan of impotent anger as he turned back into the studio. His mind was in a tumult. He was angry with Ida, angry with himself, angry with all the circumstances which had combined to bring about this result. He saw that he had made a grand blunder. He had felt so secure of Ida's love that, though he had expected that she would be vexed at what he had done, he had not doubted that he should be able to soothe her annoyance and win her to view the matter as he did. But now, the more he pondered what had occurred, the more hopeless he felt of shaking her resolution, and he had neither the courage nor strength to free himself from the bonds with which he had allowed others to bind him.

As he slammed the door of the studio behind him and took his exit from the house, he was trying to comfort himself with the thought that a wife with such exalted views of life and such a fearless way of expressing them would not be altogether a congenial companion. Yet still, he felt that he had suffered loss, and, to do Wilfred justice, it was not of any pecuniary loss that he thought at this hour. His heart was very heavy as he turned away from the well-known house in Cheyne Walk, feeling that he had sacrificed all the happy past to which it belonged, his duty to Nicolari, the precious love of Ida, whom from childhood he had regarded as his own, and his early enthusiasm for Art. Was it worth while to give so much for so little?

Ida, too, was very sad as she mused over what had passed. She could not rejoice that her engagement was at an end, for there was so much sorrow connected with the way in which it had ended. It was hard to shake off the feeling that she was responsible for Wilfred's failure to carry out the purpose of his youth. Her heart was full of pain and disappointment. Her father's last hope—the vision that had gladdened his heart amid the darkness that shrouded his life's decline would never now be realised; and Wilfred's life, which might have been good and great, would henceforth be a stunted, commonplace existence.

It was strange, Ida reflected, that the two men with whom she had been brought into closest intercourse should each be led to make a fresh start in life; and whilst the changed prospects of the one filled her with joy and hope, the decision of the other could only be regarded with shame and sorrow. Theodore Tregoning was aiming at the highest, with a noble resolve to make of his life the best thing he could; Wilfred had renounced high endeavour, and was bent on following the easiest, pleasantest path that opened before him.

It may be that Ida judged wrongly; it may be that, despite the uncommon talent he had displayed, a business career was that for which Wilfred Ormiston was best fitted. But the sculptor's daughter, trained from childhood to regard Art with the utmost reverence, and its pursuit as one of the most sacred and exalted of vocations, could not but feel that Wilfred was obeying the promptings of his lower nature and taking a downward step when he abandoned his intention of being a sculptor. She grieved over his resolve, and reproached herself as being in some way to blame for it, but it was characteristic of her state of mind that she never doubted that she had done right in breaking off her engagement. It was to Wilfred Ormiston, the sculptor, that her father had desired to see her united. Wilfred Ormiston, the ship-broker, with whom she had nothing in common, had no claim upon her troth.

### CHAPTER XXV.

A CANCELLED DEBT.

NEARLY five years have gone by since the day on which the conversation between Wilfred and Ida recorded in our last chapter took place. He had passed out of her life on that day. Ready as Ida was to forgive and forget any injury done to herself, what had occurred on that occasion made a breach between her and Wilfred which it was impossible to bridge over. She knew little more of him. About a year after his engagement to her was brought to a close, he married his cousin, Blanche Collyer, and thus gained a fortune as well as a wife. From that time, he sank into a mere man of business, rich and prosperous by all accounts, but whether as the result of his own efforts, or in consequence of his father's unflagging energy and enterprise, was matter for conjecture. Ida never heard of him as a sculptor. She saw him once driving in the park with his wife—Wilfred looking stout, indolent, and the lady a model of the latest Parisian fashions, her air of conscious vanity proclaiming that she was well pleased with the costly extravagance of her attire. Ida sighed as she looked at them, and thought of all that her father had believed and hoped concerning Wilfred.

With Mrs. Tregoning and Ida the five years passed tranquilly, and brought few changes into their quiet lives. They still lived together in the old house at Cheyne Walk, with Marie and Fritz to bear them company. But the quietude which marked their days did not involve stagnation. They were always busy in one way or another, and books and pictures and music kept fresh and pure their mental atmosphere. The studio was not suffered to be a deserted place. By some slight alterations Ida converted it into a studio for herself, where she painted diligently for some hours almost every day.

She had resolved to make the most of such skill in water-colour painting as she possessed, the talent which so wise a critic as Mr. Seabrook had told her she ought to cultivate. Every summer she and Mrs. Tregoning spent many days in the country, in order that Ida might make sketches which were afterwards worked up in the studio.

Some of her little landscapes found admittance to the Royal Academy and kindred exhibitions, and Ida began to make a name for herself as an artist, or rather she showed that she was a true daughter of the noble sculptor whose name would not soon fade from men's minds. The intense love of nature, the fine feeling for beauty of form and colour, the sincerity of purpose which characterised her pictures, made those who had known and loved Nicolari and his work, say that at least some fringes from the mantle of his genius had fallen upon his daughter. There were persons who thought it a pity she was a woman, but, in truth, could the feminine element have been abstracted from her painting, half of its charm would have gone.

Ida troubled herself little as to what the critics might say of her work. Her life had a higher aim than mere personal ambition. Her painting, as her music and her wealth, and every gift she had, was consecrated to the service of the Highest. She had made acquaintance with some of her poor neighbours dwelling in squalid misery in the worst parts of Chelsea. To bring the light of love and hope into these darkened lives, to gladden and uplift them by means of loving personal intercourse, and the employment of her gifts of culture for their good, was the aim of Ida's ministry to the poor.

Mrs. Tregoning could not go amongst the poor as Ida did, but she willingly helped in other ways, and her needle was constantly employed in making clothes for Ida's poor friends. For advice and practical help, Ida could depend on Theodore Tregoning, who, both as a clergyman and a medical man, had been brought into daily contact with the London poor, and knew by experience the best modes of helping them. Tregoning's probationary course of study was over. He had taken his final degree, and was already working hard in his profession. Every advantage he could gain had been made to yield him the utmost benefit. He had given special attention to optics, and promised to be very successful in dealing with diseases of the eye, a result of his studies which gave Ida the greatest satisfaction.

It is on a March night—a typical March night, raw and cold, with a blustering wind and frequent showers of hail—that we take up the thread of our story. A shower was descending as Theodore Tregoning quitted his chambers in Harley Street, and springing into a hansom which was waiting at his door, bade the driver drive him to Chelsea. Cheyne Walk was not, however, his destination, but a certain room in one of the most miserable streets in Chelsea, of which Ida Nicolari had taken possession, and which by her skill and industry she had converted into a place of resort very different from any other to be found in that locality. The walls had been painted and decorated under her supervision, and were adorned with some of her choicest pictures. And all the furniture of the room, whilst perfectly simple, was marked by a fine taste and regard for comfort which some would have considered thrown away on provision for the poor.

Here Ida had instituted a series of social evenings for the poor people crowded together in the wretched homes of the neighbourhood. One of these entertainments was to be given to-night, and Tregoning had promised to assist at it. He was to give the people a brief address, which should resemble on a small scale a sanitary lecture, conveying practical truth in a plain and popular way. Tregoning liked well the duty before him. He prized every opportunity of pressing home upon the minds of the working classes the fact that their health and physical well-being depended upon obedience to sanitary law. His face had a happy earnest look as he drove off to keep his engagement. The years that had gone by had left their traces on him. Somewhat of the fire and buoyancy of youth had gone, but the deeper thoughtfulness of his expression did not make his countenance less attractive. The brow was lined by care, and the bright smile came less frequently than of old, but it was all the sweeter when it came, and the brown eyes looked forth with the same steady kindly glance, inspiring with confidence the most timid or the most suspicious.

The entertainment had commenced ere Tregoning arrived upon the scene. Ida was seated at the piano when he entered, and he stood with his back against the door—for, so popular were these entertainments, there was not a seat to be had—and listened to the dreamy, entrancing melody of Schubert's which she rendered with such taste and feeling that it soothed the hearts of her audience, rough and uncultured as they were. She had taken off her hat, and her pure, classic face, with its crown of dark hair, was clearly seen wearing a look of purest pleasure. She looked as young as ever, younger, indeed, for there are some women who look and feel younger at twenty-five than they did at eighteen. Tregoning's eyes rested on her with a tender, reverent gaze. How beautiful she was, how good! How much he owed to her! The satisfaction his work yielded him was due to her, but his heart craved a yet greater blessing from her ere it could own its happiness complete.

But now the music was over, and he must go forward and give his address. It was well received, though he still lacked the graces of an orator, and spoke in somewhat halting fashion. Then a clergyman gave a humorous recitation; there was some singing, and the entertainment came to an end. So many persons lingered to speak to her, that Ida was one of the last to leave the place. Theodore waited to escort her home. She was alone, for Mrs. Tregoning had not dared to brave the rough weather.

"Had I not better get you a cab?" he asked, when Ida was ready to depart.

"No, thank you, I would rather walk," she replied, as she wrapped her fur-lined cloak about her.

It had ceased to rain when they went out into the keen night air. The wind had abated, and as they approached the river, the clouds drifted apart and the moon shone out, sending a glorious track of light across the water. Theodore had drawn Ida's hand within his arm. He had long assumed a brotherly right to protect her, but of late Ida had been conscious of something in his manner towards her which was not exactly brotherly.

"You are not in haste to get home, are you?" he surprised her now by saying. "Let us walk as far as the old church. It is so lovely to see the light upon the water, and—there is something I wish to say to you."

Ida had no objection, and they walked on in silence for a few moments.

"What I want to say to you is this," he began presently, his voice betraying some nervousness: "you will remember that I have long been in your debt?"

"How can I forget it when you are always reminding me of the fact?" Ida asked archly.

"I can now give you leave to dismiss it from your mind," he said, "for I have made the last payment to your account. I have paid the uttermost farthing."

"Have you, indeed—interest and all?" asked Ida, laughingly. "Then I hope your pride is relieved. I believe you have long been fretting under a galling sense of obligation to me, though you could not have adopted a more mistaken notion."

"You make a mistake, Ida. The obligation has 'not' galled me, nor have I fretted under it. And you are still more mistaken if you imagine that I look upon my obligation to you as one that money can discharge. Every day I seem to feel more deeply how much I owe to you. And yet I would fain increase the debt. Who was it said that most men's gratitude was no more than a secret desire to receive greater favours? Perhaps it is thus with me, for indeed, Ida, I long to ask of you a greater gift than you have yet bestowed on me."

"What do you mean?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little.

"The greatest gift you could possibly give," he answered low, "the gift of your love."

Ida heard him with a thrill of wonder and joy. But though there was momentary wonder that such bliss was for her, there was little surprise. Like a flash of light there came to her the perception that they had always belonged to each other, always been one in heart and mind. For a few moments, sensation was too acute for speech. But whilst she remained silent, he was enduring painful suspense.

"Have I asked too much?" he said in low, unsteady tones. "Is it more than you can give? It may well be so, when you remember how deluded I was in loving one so far below yourself. It was you who saved me from despair in the misery that followed my awakening from that dream. Such an experience might have destroyed my faith in womanly goodness had I not felt the influence of your purity and nobility and beautiful unselfishness."

"Oh, hush!" she said softly. "I am not that at all; I am not good, but I want to be. You will help me; we will help each other." And her fingers gently pressed his arm.

"My darling!" he exclaimed as his hand closed over hers. "You cannot know how happy your words make me. But do I really understand you aright? Is it indeed true that you can love me?"

"Yes, I do love you," she murmured, "and I too am happy. It is sweet to know that we shall live and work together."

"Ah!" he said with a smile. "No life would satisfy you into which work did not enter largely."

"No, because it is only as we work that we can live our highest life," she said. "Oh! We will strive, will we not, to make our lives true and beautiful, and to make the lives of others so—beautiful with the beauty of goodness, the beauty of the Christ?"

"With the help of God, we will!" said Theodore, in tones of deep earnestness.

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