At Love's Cost

"My dear girl, my dear Miss Ida," he said, "you are not more glad than

I. I have been almost out of my mind for the last few hours. I came to

London all in a hurry. Most important news--went to your cousin's--Oh,

Lord! what a fool that man is! Heard you had run away--not at all

surprised. Should have run away myself long before you did. Came up to

London in search of you--just heard you'd gone from here."

"I ought to have gone yesterday," said Ida, "but they let me stay."

"God bless them!" he panted. "But how pale you look--and thin. You've

been ill, very ill; and you've been unhappy, and I didn't know it. What

a fool I was to let you go! It was all my fault! I ought to have known

better than to have trusted you to that sanctimonious idiot. My dear,

I've great news for you!"

"Have you?" said Ida, patting his hand soothingly--she had caught

something of the gentle, soothing way of the sister and nurses. "Must

you tell me now? You are tired and upset." "I must tell you this very

minute or I shall burst," said Mr. Wordley. "My dear child, prepare

yourself for the most astounding, the most wonderful news. I don't want

to startle you, but I don't feel as though I could keep it for another

half hour. Do you think I could have a glass of water?"

The porter, still sympathetic, at a sign from Ida, produced the glass

of water and discreetly retired.

"Now," said Mr. Wordley, with intense gravity, "prepare to be startled.

Be calm, my dear child, as I am; you see I am quite calm!" He was

perspiring at every pore, and was mopping his forehead with a huge silk

handkerchief. "I have just made a great discovery. You are aware that

Herondale, the whole estate, is heavily mortgaged, and that there was a

foreclosure; that means that the whole of it would have passed away

from you."

Ida sighed.

"Yes, I know," she said, in a low voice.

"Very well, then. I went over to the house the other day to--well, to

look out any little thing which I thought you might like to buy at the

sale--"

Ida pressed his hand and turned her head away.

"It was a sad business, sad, very sad! and I wandered about the place

like a--like a lost spirit. I was almost as fond of it as you are, my

dear. After I had been over the house I went into the grounds and found

myself in the ruined chapel. Donald and Bess followed me, and

Bess--what a sharp little thing she is, bless her!--she began to rout

about, and presently she began to dig with her claws in a corner under

the ruined window. I was so lost in thought that I stood and watched

her in an absent kind of way: but presently I heard her bark and saw

her tearing away like mad, as if she had found a rat or a rabbit. I

went up to where she was clawing and saw--what do you think--"