“There is no fear of my forgetting,” he said, “and I am selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, Ida.” “Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burdens to bear. It is a hard world, and we must bear them. And it will all be the same in the end, in just a few years. I daresay these dead people here have felt as we feel, and how quiet they are! And perhaps there may be something beyond, where things are not so. Who can say? You won’t go away from this place, Harold, will you? Not until I am married at any rate; perhaps you had better go then. Say that you won’t go till then, and you will let me see you sometimes; it is a comfort to see you.” “I should have gone, certainly,” he said; “to New Zealand probably, but if you wish it I will stop for the present.” “Thank you; and now good-bye, my dear, good-bye! No, don’t come with me, I can find my own way home. And—why do you wait? Good-bye, good-bye for ever in this way. Yes, kiss me once and swear that you will never forget me. Marry if you wish to; but don’t forget me, Harold. Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I speak as one about to die to you, and I wish things to be clear.” “I shall never marry and I shall never forget you,” he answered. “Good-bye, my love, good-bye!” In another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his heart. He, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night. An hour afterwards Ida came down into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, looking rather pale but otherwise quite herself. Presently the Squire arrived. He had been at a magistrate’s meeting, and had only just got home. “Why, Ida,” he said, “I could not find you anywhere. I met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking through the park.” “Did he?” she answered indifferently. “Yes, I have been out. It was so stuffy indoors. Father,” she went on, with a change of tone, “I have something to tell you. I am engaged to be married.” He looked at her curiously, and then said quietly—the Squire was always quiet in any matter of real emergency—“Indeed, my dear! That is a serious matter. However, speaking off-hand, I think that notwithstanding the disparity of age, Quaritch——” “No, no,” she said, wincing visibly, “I am not engaged to Colonel Quaritch, I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.” “Oh,” he said, “oh, indeed! I thought from what I saw, that—that——” At this moment the servant announced dinner. “Well, never mind about it now, father,” she said; “I am tired and want my dinner. Mr. Cossey is coming to see you to-morrow, and we can talk about it afterwards.” And though the Squire thought a good deal, he made no further allusion to the subject that night. CHAPTER XXV. THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT