Ah! if this thing were verily to come to pass, how kind, how good she would be to others! She would have them all at the Abbey,--the shabby old half-pay father, shabby no longer in those glorious days; the vulgar little stepmother, improved into elegance; the five-year old brother, that loveliest and dearest of created beings. How lovely to see him rioting in the luxuriance of those dear old gardens, rolling on that velvet sward, racing his favourite dogs round and round the grand old cedars! What a pony he should ride! His daily raiment should be Genoa velvet and old point lace. He should be the admiration and delight of half the county. And Bessie--how kind she could be to Bessie, repaying in some small measure that which never could be fully repaid--the kindness shown by the prosperous girl to the poor dependent. And above all,--vision sweeter even than the thought of doing good,--how she would trample on Urania Rylance--how the serpentine coils of that damsel's malice and pride could be trodden under foot! Not a ball, not a dinner, not a garden-party given at the Abbey that would not be a thorn in Urania's side, a nail in Urania's coffin. So ran her fancies--in a very fever--all through the troubled night; but when the first streak of the autumn dawn glimmered coldly in the east, dismal presage of the discordant dressing-bell, then she turned upon her pillow with a weary sigh, and muttered to herself:-- 'After all I daresay Mr. Wendover is only fooling me. Perhaps it is his habit to make love to every decent-looking girl he meets.' The next day Ida walked on the same riverside path, but this time not alone. Her natural modesty shrank from the possibility of a second _tête-à-tête_ with her admirer, and she stooped from her solitary state to ask Fräulein Wolf to accompany her in her afternoon walk. Fräulein was delighted, honoured even, by the request. She was a wishy-washy person, sentimental, vapourish, altogether feeble, and she intensely admired Ida Palliser's vigorous young beauty. The day was bright and sunny, the air deliciously mild, the river simply divine. The two young women paced the path slowly, talking of German poetry. The Fräulein knew her Schiller by heart, having expounded him daily for the last four years, and she fondly believed that after Shakespeare Schiller was the greatest poet who had ever trodden this globe. 'And if God had spared him for twenty more years, who knows if he would not have been greater than Shakespeare? inquired the Fräulein, blandly. She talked of Schiller's idea of friendship, as represented by the Marquis of Posa. 'Ah,' sighed Ida, 'I doubt if there is any such friendship as that out of a book.' 'I could be like the marquis,' said the Fräulein, smiling tenderly.' Oh, Ida, you don't know what I would do for anyone I loved--for a dear and valued friend, like you for instance, if you would only let me love you; but you have always held me at arm's length.'