CHAPTER XIX.

THEODORE TREGONING IN TROUBLE.

“IS anything the matter with you, Ida?”

Ida started at the sudden question. She had been reading to her father a description of some paintings by a foreign artist, but though she read on clearly and smoothly, her voice and manner had betrayed to Antonio’s quick ear that her mind had wandered from what she read.

“There is nothing the matter with me, father,” she answered quickly. “What made you think there was?”

“I fancied your tones sounded weary, dear,” he said. “Don’t read any more; I am sure you must be tired. Does your head ache?”

“Well, yes, now I think of it, it does ache,” said Ida, striving to speak lightly, “but that is nothing.”

“Do not say so. You must take care of your health, child; it is your most precious possession,” he said earnestly. “Leave me now, and take a turn in the garden; the fresh air will do your head good, perhaps.”

Ida obeyed him without demur. She had felt uneasy and restless since her return from Miss Seabrook’s that afternoon. Every word that had passed between them during their brief interview had repeated itself to her many times. She was ill-pleased with herself, as she recalled what she had said in her warmth. What good had she done by reproaching Miss Seabrook with her heartlessness? But far deeper than this vexation with herself was Ida’s sense of the pain and grief which another was enduring. As she thought of that, she felt that Geraldine Seabrook more than deserved every reproach she had cast at her. Ida would have given anything to be able to forget that retort of Miss Seabrook’s which had stung her so sharply, but that would not soon be forgotten.

Antonio sighed as his daughter left him. It was one of the sorest conditions of his blindness that it prevented his watching the changes of the face that was dearest to him upon earth. Instinctively he divined that Ida was in trouble, and he longed to look into her clear dark eyes and read therein the source of her distress.

Ida went downstairs with slow, uncertain steps. For once she was almost glad to quit her father’s presence, for it was hard to maintain the cheerfulness she always tried to show when with him. She was thankful that an engagement had kept Wilfred from them that evening. She would have to give him some account of her visit to Miss Seabrook, but it was a relief not to be called upon to do so immediately.

Ida had not heard the house-bell ring, and she was surprised, on gaining the hall, to see Anne in the act of opening the door to a visitor. In the dim evening light, Ida could not at first see who it was that entered, and her heart fell at the thought that it might be Wilfred. But the next moment she experienced a thrill of more vivid emotion, as she perceived that the visitor was Theodore Tregoning. She was glad that the twilight screened her, for she felt strangely agitated as she went forward to meet him.

“Good evening, Mr. Tregoning, how are you? Will you walk upstairs? My father will be very pleased to see you.”

“Thank you, I must beg to be excused this evening,” said Tregoning, hurriedly, as they shook hands. “I have only come to bring a message from my mother; I cannot stay.”

“Mrs. Tregoning is quite well, I hope?”

“Yes,—at least, no—I ought to say that she has been suffering a good deal this week, and is obliged to keep indoors. She thought you would think it strange that she had not been to see you, and she begged me to let you know how she was, and that she would be very pleased to see you if you can spare an hour for her.”

“I will certainly try to do so,” said Ida. “I am very sorry that she is