Perhaps the cause of her depression lay in the strangeness of this sudden union, its semi-clandestine character, her loneliness at a crisis in life when most girls are surrounded by friends. Often in her reckless talk with Bessie Wendover she had imagined her marriage. She would marry for money. Yes, the soap-boiler, the candlestick maker--anybody. It should be a splendid wedding--a dozen of the prettiest girls at Mauleverer for her bridesmaids, bells ringing, flowers strewn upon her pathway, carriage and four, postilions in blue jackets and white favours, all the world and his wife looking on and wondering at her high fortune. This is how fancy had painted the picture when Ida discoursed of her future in the butterfly-room at Mauleverer; Miss Rylance listening and making sarcastic comments; Bessie in fits of smothered laughter at all the comic touches in the description; for did not true-hearted Bessie know that the thing was a joke, and that her noble Ida would never so degrade herself as to marry for money? And now Ida was going to do this thing, scarcely knowing why she did it, not at all secure in her own mind of future happiness; not with unalloyed pride in her conquest, but yielding to her lover because he was the first who had ever asked her; because he was warm and true when all else in life seemed cold and false; and because the alternative--return to the poor home--was so dreary. The conversation flagged as the lovers walked in the twilight. The sun was sinking behind the low hedge of yonder level meadow. Far away in mountainous regions the same orb was setting in rocky amphitheatres, distant, unapproachable. Here in this level land he seemed to be going down into a grave behind that furthest hedge. It was a lovely evening--orange and rosy lights reflected on the glassy river, willows stirred with a murmurous movement by faintest zephyrs--a wind no louder than a sigh. Brian proposed that they should go on the river; his boat was there ready, it was only to step into the light skiff, and drift lazily with the stream. They got into the Abbey river, among water-lilies whose flowers had all died long ago, face downwards. The season of golden flowers, buttercup, marsh-mallow, was over. The fields were grayish-green, with ruddy tinges here and there. The year was fading. Ida sat in dead silence watching the declining light, one listless hand dipping in the river. Brian was thoughtful, more thoughtful than she had known him in any period of their acquaintance. 'Where shall we go for our honeymoon? he asked abruptly, jingling some loose coins in his pocket. 'Oh, that is for you to decide. I--I know what I should like best,' faltered Ida. 'What is that?' 'I should like you to take me to Dieppe, where we could see my father, and explain everything to him.' 'Did you write to him to-day?' 'No; I thought I would tell him nothing till after our marriage. You might change your mind at the last.'