'I'm not quite so greedy as you, Lucy,' retorted Ida; 'I don't think a hamper would make my eyes sparkle, even if there were anybody to send me one.' 'But there is somebody to send you one,' argued Lucy, with her mouth full of bread and butter; 'your father isn't dead?' 'No.' 'Then he might send you a hamper.' 'He might, if he lived within easy reach of Mauleverer Manor,' replied Ida; 'but as he lives in France--' 'He could send a post-office order to a confectioner in London, and the confectioner would send you a big box of cakes, and marmalade, and jam, and mixed biscuits, and preserved ginger,' said Lucy, her cheeks glowing with the rapture of her theme. 'That is what my mamma and papa did, when they were in Switzerland, on my birthday. I never had such a hamper as that one. I was ill for a week afterwards.' 'And I suppose you were very glad your mother and father were away,' said Ida, while the other children laughed in chorus. 'It was a splendid hamper,' said Lucy, stolidly. 'I shall never forget it. So you see your father might send you a hamper,' she went on, for the sake of argument, 'though he is in France.' 'Certainly,' said Ida, 'if I were not too old to care about cakes and jam.' '_We_ are not too old,' persisted Lucy; 'you might share them among us.' Ida's heart had not stilled its stormy vehemence yet. She talked lightly to her young companions, and tried to eat a little bread and butter, but that insipid fare almost choked her. Her mind was overcharged with thought and wonder. Could he have meant all or half he said just now?--this young man with the delicate features, pale complexion, and thin lips. He had seemed intensely earnest. Those gray eyes of his, somewhat too pale of hue for absolutely beauty, had glowed with a fire which even Ida's inexperience recognised as something above and beyond common feeling. His hand had trembled as it clasped hers. Could there be such a thing as love at first sight? and was she destined to be the object of that romantic passion? She had read of the triumphs of beauty, and she knew that she was handsome. She had been told the fact in too many ways--by praise sometimes, but much more often by envy--to remain unconscious of her charms. She was scornful of her beauty, inclined to undervalue the gift as compared with the blessings of other girls--a prosperous home, the world's respect, the means to gratify the natural yearnings of youth--but she knew that she was beautiful. And now it seemed to her all at once that beauty was a much more valuable gift than she had supposed hitherto--indeed, a kind of talisman or Aladdin's lamp, which could win for her all she wanted in this world--Wendover Abbey and the position of a country squire's wife. It was not a dazzling or giddy height to which to aspire; but to Ida just now it seemed the topmost pinnacle of social success.