She had honestly endeavoured to be good. She had made her curtsey at the door without a falter--weak as she was. She had taken her place at the head of the table with all dignity, and had accepted the almonds and raisins with sufficiently audible thanks. She had replied prettily enough to her uncle's inquiries after her health; and, anxious to keep up the conversation, had told him that the hedge was budding. "_What's_ the matter with the hedge?" he had asked rather sharply; and when Ida repeated her bit of spring news, he had not seemed to be interested. It was no part of the gardener's work. Ida relapsed into silence, and so did her uncle. But this was not all. He had sharp eyes, and fierce bushy eyebrows, from under which he was apt to scrutinize Ida in a way that seemed to scatter all her presence of mind. This night of all nights she found his eyes upon her oftener than usual. Whenever she looked up he was watching her, and her discomfort increased accordingly. At last he broke the silence abruptly by saying: "You were very sorry, child, were you not, when the news came of your father's death?" The sudden introduction of this sacred subject made Ida's head reel. "What?" she cried, and could get no further. "Have you forgotten already?" the old gentleman said, almost reprovingly. "You did not know him, it is true; but you must remember hearing that your poor father had been drowned at sea?" Ida's only reply was such a passionate outburst of weeping that her uncle rang the bell in helpless dismay, and was thankful when the old butler lifted the child tenderly in his arms and carried her back to Nurse. The old gentleman's feelings were more kindly than his looks, and he was really as much concerned as puzzled by the effect of his remarks. When the butler returned with the report that Ida was going quietly to bed, he sent her his "love" (the word seemed to struggle with some difficulty from behind his neck-cloth), and all the remaining almonds and raisins. "I can't eat them," said Ida, smiling feebly, for her head was aching, "but it is very kind of him; and please tell Brown to tell him that I am very sorry, and please put the almonds and raisins into my box. I will make a dolls feast with them, if ever I make dolls' feasts again." With which the weary little maid turned upon her pillow, and at last forgot her troubles in sleep. The next morning Brown delivered a similar message from the old gentleman. He had gone away by an early train on business, but had left Ida his love. "It's very kind of him," said Ida, again. But she went sadly on with some paper she was cutting into shapes. She was in low spirits this morning. Comfort was at hand, however. In the course of the day there came a message from Mrs. Overtheway, asking Nurse to allow Ida to go to tea with her that evening. And Nurse consented.