"I think I have changed since poor papa's death. I don't feel reckless in any way now. I shall never get over it; never." Frances, who had taken some knitting to sit in a near chair, frowned as the girl spoke. "That's the way she goes on, Mr. Vernon. Isn't it foolish? I want her to go out and enjoy herself." "As if I could when poor papa is dead only two months," cried Ida sighing. "Oh, I don't mean you to lead a gay life. But you shouldn't stay here day after day without sunshine." "I think Miss Hest is right, Ida," said Vernon, gravely scrutinising the pale face of the girl; "you are not looking well." "I don't feel at all well," she replied peevishly. "There's nothing organically wrong," put in Frances quickly. "The doctor said that Ida was perfectly healthy, and only needed to go out and lead a happy life to become quite strong." "I shall never be happy again," said Ida with determination. Visitor and nurse--as Frances might be called--looked at one another. The girl evidently had made up her mind to be miserable. This was not a sensible attitude to adopt, but then Ida was not a particularly sensible girl. She assuredly was not brilliantly clever, although she possessed a certain amount of brains. Pretty in a doll-like way, with her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy-pink complexion, she was an excellent type of a charming, modest, playful English girl, who would make a good wife and a devoted mother. But there was nothing original about her, and, being the spoilt darling of an elderly father, she was subject to moods. She was sick or well, merry or sad, just as the fit took her. At one time she would fatigue herself with theatres and dances and tennis-tournaments, and again, with a revulsion of feeling, would lie on the sofa all day, reading novels. Poets would have called her an April lady, of sunshine and rain, but an ordinary human being would have found her trying. It said a great deal for Miss Hest's true affection that she put up with so whimsical a being. A weathercock was nothing in comparison with Ida Dimsdale. Why a sober, elderly, military man like Colonel Towton should desire to make such a featherhead his wife was a problem which Vernon was trying to solve as he stared at the girl on the sofa. Ida's mood since the death of her father had been to play the invalid. Certainly she had suffered a shock, as was natural; but time had softened the memory of the tragic death, and Vernon approved of Miss Hest's desire to get the girl away to Yorkshire. "You ought to go to Gerby Hall, Ida," he remarked after a momentary silence; "a few weeks in the open air would do you all the good in the world." "That's what I tell her," said Frances severely; "but she won't come down to Yorkshire, as I suggest. I shall end in going away altogether." Ida stretched out a pretty hand and caught that of Miss Hest. "Oh, no, Frances, darling; you know that I cannot live without you. I must have a companion."