"Ida, tell me the truth," said Arabella, with an anxious look; "have you heard anything that makes you suspect such a separation? Do you believe that it is about to take place?" "No, lady; no, dear lady," replied the fair Italian girl. "I have heard nothing but what I have told you, in truth. I would not deceive you on any account: no, not for your own good; for it is not right, and I never saw anything but evil come of doing wrong. I know not how it was, but when I saw this note written in a hand I did not know, a foolish fancy came across my mind, I do not well know what,--a fear--no, scarcely a fear,--a doubt; and I determined, ere I went, to tell you what I thought of Maude." "I wish you would not go, Ida," said the lady; "indeed, I wish you would not go." "Nay, but I must," answered Ida Mara; "they may wish to see me about some point of vital consequence, on which your welfare would depend. I must go, indeed; and the sun is getting high, so that I ought not to tarry longer; I will be back again with all speed, dear lady. It was a foolish fancy of mine,--idle and groundless, I am sure." Thus saying, she kissed Arabella's hand, and withdrew. For several minutes the lady sat in sad and apprehensive meditation, with her eyes cast down towards the ground; but then she rose with a sigh, and, covering her head, walked out into the grounds, sauntering slowly along in the sunshine. After that, she sat herself down at the foot of an old oak, the wide contorted branches of which, with their thick covering of leaves, afforded a pleasant shade. Musing sadly, she there remained for near an hour, raising her eyes from time to time towards the gates, which she still kept within sight. Ida Mara, however, did not appear, and Arabella became anxious. In about a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Conyers came out and joined her, trying to give her consolation, after her fashion; but she was not a person with whom the poor captive's heart could feel at ease. She knew her to be worldly and selfish; and though devoted to her husband, and obedient to his wishes, there was a great difference in the manners of the two, even when doing the same things, which Arabella felt with all the sensitiveness of misfortune. Her presence, then, under the anxiety which oppressed her, was a burden rather than a relief; and after remaining, out of courtesy, for about a quarter of an hour, she rose, and went back to her apartments. Time passed, and Ida Mara did not come; and, at length, Arabella, giving way to the feelings she could not restrain, wept long and bitterly. Rousing herself, at length, she called her maid from a neighbouring room, "Tell Cobham," she said, "to come to me instantly. Ida has not returned?" she asked, with a last lingering hope. "No, my lady," replied the maid; "Mistress Ida went out near three hours ago, but has not yet come back. I wonder what can have become of her."