Suddenly their silence bore down upon Ida's absent-mindedness, she felt

rather than saw that something was the matter, and she got up, in the

middle of one of Mr. George Powler's fluent but badly constructed

sentences, and going over to Isabel asked her to play something.

Isabel flushed.

"Oh, you had better sing," she said; "Mr. Powler would like that

better, _I'm_ sure."

"Oh, yes; please do!" pleaded the man; and Ida, trying to conceal her

weariness and distaste, went to the piano and sang the shortest song

she knew.

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Her acquiescence was unfortunate in its result, for it completed in Mr.

George Powler's bosom the havoc which her face and voice had wrought.

He pressed her to sing again, beat time with his large hand and badly

groomed head, and was enthusiastic in his praises and seemed so

disappointed when she refused, that he seconded her appeal to Isabel

with an obviously forced politeness.

Isabel went to the piano, but she was at no time a very brilliant

performer, and the poor girl was so upset by Ida's unconscious and

unwilling superiority, that she broke down in the middle of one of

those hideous drawing-room pieces which seem specially "arranged" for

the torture of those who are blessed or cursed with musical taste.

The conversation naturally lagged and languished under these

circumstances, and Mr. George Powler presently rose to take his leave.

He was not asked to remain to dinner though Mrs. Heron had intended

inviting him, and had made secret and flurried preparations. He shook

hands with Ida with marked _empressement_ and nervousness, and seemed

as if he could scarcely tear himself away.

When he had gone the mother and daughter sat bolt upright in their

chairs and stared before them in a pregnant silence; and Ida, wondering

what was the matter, was about to leave the room, when Mrs. Heron said

in a hard, thin voice: "One moment, Ida, if you please."

Ida paused at the door with her book in her hand, startled from her

dreaminess by the woman's tone and manner.

"You had better close the door, Ida. I should not like the servants to

overhear what it is my duty to say to you."

Ida closed the door and stood expectantly, and Mrs. Heron continued: "I trust I am not one to find fault unnecessarily. I know it is the

duty of a Christian to be patient and long-suffering; but there is a

limit to one's endurance, and I regret to say that you have passed that

limit. I should not be fulfilling my duty to a young person who is

under my charge if I refrained from pointing out to you that your

conduct, since you have been under our roof, has been reprehensible and

disgraceful."




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