CHAPTER IV.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

As Ida entered the dining-room, her mother asked,

"Have you only just come in, Ida?"

"No; I came in about twelve," she answered; "but I had some work to do," and she blushed a little as she thought of what she had been doing.

Mrs. Bygrave looked vexed, and Colonel Craven wondered what the work was that was so absorbing.

"I have come," he said, "to ask you and Mrs. Bygrave to spend the afternoon at the Postern; the Miss Ansons arrived at eleven, and it was not easy to know what to do, and I escaped, saying I would do all I could to bring you. There is to be some boating in the evening."

"We can't go," said Ida, just a little joyfully.

Those two old ladies are coming here."

"I cannot," said Mrs. Bygrave, "but you can. It will be but kind to your cousins, and I know you will like it."

"Yes, mother," said Ida, doubtfully.

"I am afraid you do not like it, Miss Bygrave," said Craven. "I will make your excuses if you wish, but we all want you much.”

But there was no help for it, so when lunch was over, Ida walked away from Maple Banks demurely by Colonel Craven's side.

She liked him, and wanted him to think well of her, and therefore, as she had done ever since she could remember, when she wanted to be good, she played at being a

woman.

She discussed the weather at much length, and with great elaboration, until Arthur wondered why she could not be as natural as she was at home. He had seen a good deal of her for the last month, and admired her very much; her bright fresh face and strong active step attracted him at first, and the more he saw of her the more she

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interested, puzzled, and attracted him. was unlike any other girl he had seen. He had watched her a good deal, and thought her, spite of shy demure moments like the present, most reasonable and unaffected. She was uncertain, she was often absent and preoccupied, but, whatever but, whatever else she was, always perfectly sincere and genuine.

He was a little puzzled by her visible indifference to him personally. He had sought her lately, as he had never sought any woman before, and he was not of the men who are apt to be unheeded. This he did not

say to himself, but it formed part of his impressions about her.

He knew her age, but forgot it, as every one else did; or said to himself some of the common-places about the difference of men and women of equal ages, which are about equally plausible and misleading. He did not think much about her beauty: at that time there was not much to think of, though even as to looks she was puzzling

and uncertain, and there were times, when anything really interested her, that her face seemed to take a marvellous light; and he found himself casting about for things to interest her, that he might sun himself in that light.

The lover instinct of talking of self was strong on him as he walked beside her, but he was not a man to whom such talk came easily; after a while he said,—

"I was surprised to find Mrs. Maxwell had left you. They did not know it at

the Postern."

"No; they could not," she answered. "We did not till last night."

"It is very brave of her," said Arthur, “at the worst time of the whole year.”

"Is it worse now than at other times ?" said Ida. She won't mind; but it is dreadful to think of her leaving the boy." That is a necessary feature of Indian

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life it involves so many sad partings. you think you would like India, Miss Bygrave," he said.

"I don't know. I should like to see it," she said; but not caring to talk of herself, she went on quickly, "But, Colonel Craven, something there was I wanted to ask you.

Oh, I know now; will Mrs. Maxwell know any real Indian people, gentlemen and ladies, out there-natives, I mean? Are there any to know? She never told me anything about it; but now she is gone I have been wondering what she is going to."

"I don't think she will," answered Craven. "There are very few natives who go into English society, and fewer than ever now since the mutiny. I hardly know why, but it does not happen. It is a great pity. A little more mutual comprehension would save us from a good many existing difficulties. I have one native friend a Mahomedan, who is very much to me, but it is sufficiently unusual for people to notice it; indeed they are hardly tired yet of talking about Craven's nigger, who, by the way, is a perfect