'Then why delay our marriage, in order to formally obtain a consent which you are sure of beforehand! As for my friends, Bessie's people are the nearest and dearest, and you know what their feelings are on your behalf.' 'Bessie likes me as her friend. I don't know how she might like me as her cousin's wife,' said Ida. 'Then I will settle your doubts by telling you a little secret. Bessie sent me here to try and win you for my wife. It was her desire as well as mine.' More arguments followed, and against the lover's ardent pleading there was only a vague idea of duty in the girl's mind, somewhat weakened by an instinctive notion that her father would think her an arrant fool for delaying so grand a triumph as her marriage with a man of fortune and position. Had he not often spoken to her wistfully of her beauty, and the dim hope that her handsome face might some day win her a rich husband? 'It's a poor chance at the best,' he told her. 'The days of the Miss Gunnings have gone by. The world has grown commercial. Nowadays money marries money.' And this chance, which her father had speculated upon despondently as a remote contingency, was now at her feet. Was she to spurn it, and then go back to the shabby little villa near Dieppe, and expect to be praised for her filial duty? While she wavered, Brian urged every argument which a lover could bring to aid his suit. To-morrow they might be married, and in the meanwhile Ida could be safely and comfortably housed with the good woman at the lock-house. Brian would give up his lodgings to her, and would stay at the hotel at Chertsey. Ida listened, and hesitated: before her lay the dry, dusty road, the solitary journey by land and sea, the doubtful welcome at home. And here by her side stood the wealthy lover, the very embodiment of protecting power--is not every girl's first lover in her eyes as Olympian Jove?--eager to take upon himself the burden of her life, to make her footsteps easy. 'Step into the boat, dearest,' he said; 'I know your heart has decided for me. You are not afraid to trust me, Ida?' 'Afraid? no,' she answered, frankly, looking at him with heavenly confidence in her large dark eyes; 'I am only afraid of doing wrong.' 'You can do no wrong with me by your side, your husband to-morrow, responsible for all the rest of your existence.' 'True, after to-morrow I shall be accountable to no one but you,' she said, thoughtfully. 'How strange it seems!' 'At the worst, I hope you will find me better than old Pew,' answered Brian, lightly. 'You are too good--too generous,' she said; 'but I am afraid you are acting too much from impulse. Have you considered what you are going to do? have you thought what it is to marry a penniless girl, who can give you none of the things which the world cares for in exchange for your devotion?'