More than a year had gone by since that awful night, and a new Wimperfield House was slowly rising from the ashes of the Bath stone mansion with the Grecian portico. Only the walls and the portico had remained intact after the fire, and these had been pulled down to make room for a spacious edifice in the Early English manner, the heavy insurances on the old building providing for the cost of this newer and more beautiful Wimperfield. But Ida was not near to watch the new Wimperfield in the progress of erection. She had spent the greater part of the last year at the Homestead with Miss Wendover, and the residue with her stepmother at Bournemouth, where Lady Palliser had taken and furnished for herself one of the pretty villas on the Boscomb estate, a pleasant home for the placid joys of widowhood, and a nice place for Vernon’s holidays, were he contented to spend them there, which he was not, greatly preferring the more rustic life of Kingthorpe. Here he was a welcome guest both at the Knoll and at the Homestead; while there was a third house open to him within a walk of the village, for Mr. Wendover had returned from his distant wanderings, and he and Vernie were on very friendly terms.

Ida had as yet seen but little of the master of the Abbey, albeit she heard of him almost daily from some of The Knoll family. He had returned at Easter, unexpectedly, as usual, and much to the surprise of a neighbourhood which had grown accustomed to the idea of his never coming back at all. But although he had settled himself at the Abbey, declaring that he had made an end of his wanderings, seen all he wanted to see, and never meant to go far afield any more, he had taken no share in the picnics and rustic festivities with which the Knoll family celebrated their worship of the great god Pan; whereupon Blanche informed her cousin frankly that he was not half so nice as he had been seven years ago, when he had joined in their fungus hunts and barrow hunts and blackberry gatherings, just as if he had been one of themselves.

‘Seven years ago I was seven years younger, Blanche. We were all children then.’

Blanche sighed, and shook her head despondently.

‘As for me, I feel centuries old,’ she said; ‘but that is only natural in such a dead-and-alive hole as Kingthorpe.’

Which speech being interpreted meant that Miss Wendover had not had a new frock or an invitation to a garden party for the last fortnight.

‘Still,’ she argued,’ one ought to make the best of one’s life even at Kingthorpe, and picnics and rambles help one to endure existence. You used to be such a delightful companion, and now no one but little Vernie ever seems to get any fun out of you. He is always talking of the larks he has at the Abbey.’

‘Sir Vernon is good enough to call the mildest form of diversion a lark!’ said Brian Wendover, smiling at her.

‘Come now, I will make a bargain with you,’ said Blanche.

‘John Jardine and Bess are coming over next week to spend Bessie’s birthday with us, which, as you know, is a family festival that we never allow to be celebrated anywhere else. Bess and John and the babies are coming to us, and Vernon Palliser is going to the Homestead, and his mother is coming over from Bournemouth to stay a few days with Aunt Betsy; so you see it will be a grand family gathering of Wendovers and Pallisers. Now, if you are anything like the man you were seven years ago, prove it by joining us on this occasion.’

‘I cannot refuse; and I will try my uttermost to forget that I have lived seven lonely years since that happy summer.’

‘Ah, it was a happy summer!’ sighed Blanche, who affected to be weighed down by the burden of mature years. ‘I wasn’t out in those days, and I hadn’t a care.’

‘What form does your festival take this year? and where do you mean to celebrate it?’

‘Oh, a picnic, of course, if this lovely weather only holds out. We have not had one really proper picnic this year.’

‘But don’t you think the seventh of September is just a little late for an al fresco feast? Suppose we were to make it luncheon and afternoon tea at the Abbey, with unlimited tennis in the afternoon.’

‘That would be simply delicious,’ said Blanche, concluding that Mr. Wendover intended to invite all the eligible young men of his acquaintance to be found within twenty miles.

‘Then it is agreed. You need give yourself no further trouble. You have only to bring your people — the Knoll party, and the Homestead party.’

‘Precisely. Of course you can ask as many as you like.’

The year which was gone had been one of perfect peace for Ida, peace overshadowed by the memories of pain and horror; but those memories had been lightened, and her mind had been comforted, and soothed, and fortified by Aunt Betsy’s loving companionship, by that common-sense and broad way of thinking which was as a tower of strength in the day of trouble. Yet for months after that awful time at Wimperfield her nights had been broken by dreadful dreams or too vivid reminiscences of her husband’s evil fate, that terrible decay of mind and body, that gradual annihilation of the energies and powers of manhood which it had been her painful lot to witness.

Aunt Betsy took care that the young widow’s days should be too busy for much thought. She found constant occupation for her. She sent her about to the remotest corners of the parish to minister to the sorrows of others; she gave her the sick to nurse, and the old and feeble to care for, and the young to teach; so that there should be no leisure left from dawn to sunset for futile lamenting over the irrevocable past. But in the silence of night those dreaded memories crept out of their hiding-places, as other vermin creep out of their holes under cover of darkness, and it was long before they began to grow less vivid and let a terrible.

From the moment Miss Wendover appeared at Wimperfield on the afternoon after the fire, coming as quickly after the receipt of the news as horses could convey her, Ida had been sheltered and protected by her love. No sooner was Brian laid at rest in his grave in Wimperfield churchyard than Aunt Betsy carried off the hopeless, broken-down widow to the Homestead, where Ida resumed all her old duties; so that there were times when it seemed as if all the years of her married life were but a dream from which she had awakened, a dream which had subdued and saddened her whole nature, and had made her feel old and weary.

But there was much of happiness in her life, so much that she was fain to put aside all signs and tokens of grief except her dense black gowns and crape bonnets, and to rejoice with those who rejoiced; for here was Aunt Betsy, the most cheery and unselfish of women, whose life ought to be all sunshine, inasmuch as she spent so large a portion of it in brightening the lives of others; and here were the boys and girls from the Knoll, always in uproarious spirits, and wanting Ida’s sympathy in all their delights; and here was Vernon coming over from the Vicarage on Salisbury Plain, at all times and seasons, for a few days’ holiday, rosier and stronger and more sporting every time she saw him, great upon hawking and hunting, and full of grand schemes for his future life at the new Wimperfield. He had forgotten Brian’s melancholy doom, as easily as youth is apt to forget everything, in the hurry and ardour of life’s morning; but his love for his sister knew no abatement. He wanted her to share in all his future joys.

‘You are not going to stay at the Homestead all your life, are you?’ he asked one day. ‘Of course you are going back to Wimperfield directly the new house is finished?’

‘No, dear, I could never live at Wimperfield again — it would recall too many sad scenes. When Aunt Betsy is tired of me I shall go abroad. I have seen so little of the world, you know.’

‘Oh, if you want to travel, you can go with me when I come of age; but in the meantime you must help mother to keep house at Wimperfield. It will be quite a new place — everything new — nothing to remind you of father or Brian. And then in a few years I shall be of age, and then we can go off to the Rockies together.’

‘With Cheap Jack for our guide, philosopher and friend.’ said Ida.

‘Well, no; I’m afraid Cheap Jack won’t go with us!’ answered Vernon, laughing.

‘I have such a reason to be grateful to him that I could hardly object to his company,’ said Ida; ‘and I am quite unhappy at never having been able to thank him or reward him for saving my life.’

‘He didn’t want to be thanked or rewarded. Didn’t I tell you that he was not that kind of man?’

‘But why should any man go through life doing good to others, and never getting thanks or praise for his goodness,’ said Ida. ‘It is a most unpleasant form of misanthropy. I feel quite uncomfortable under the burden of my obligations to Mr. Jack; and though I have made every effort to put myself in communication with him, through Mr. Mason and others, I have not been able to find out where he is or anything about him.’

‘Odd, isn’t it?’ said Vernon. ‘He left the cottage on the day after the fire, didn’t he? shut it up, and took the key to Lord Pontifex’s steward, and drove off with his books and things packed in his cart, goodness knows where, after having made a free gift of his stock to the villagers.’

‘Not a very profitable way of carrying on business,’ said Ida. ‘He must have had mean............