She looked up at him with doubt and a faint trouble in her beautiful eyes, and he heard her sigh regretfully.

“I am afraid,” she said, in a low voice.

“Afraid?” He looked at her with a smile of surprise.  “If anyone were to tell me that it was possible for you to be afraid, I shouldn’t believe them,” he said.  “Fear and you haven’t made acquaintance yet, Ida!”

She shook her head.

“I am so happy, so intensely happy, that I am afraid lest the gods should be jealous and snatch my happiness from me.  I am afraid that if you come to-morrow, my father will say ‘No,’ will—­”

—­“Will have me shown out,” said Stafford, gravely.  “I see.  I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“And—­and then I should not be able to see you again.”

He laughed at the idea.

“My dearest, if all the fathers in the world said ‘No,’ it wouldn’t make any difference to me,” he said, with that air of masterfulness, that flash of the eye which a woman loves in a man.  “Do you think I should give you up, that I should be content to say, ’I’m very sorry, sir,’ and go off—­leave you—­keep away from you!” He laughed again, and she nestled a little closer, and her small hand closed a little more tightly on his arm.  “And you wouldn’t give me up, refuse to see me, even if your father withheld his consent, would you, Ida?” he asked.

She looked straight before her dreamily.  Then raised her eyes to his gravely.

“No; I could not.  It is just that.  I could not.  Somehow I feel as if I had given you the right to myself and that nothing could alter it, nothing could take me away from you!”

How was it possible for him to refrain from lifting her in his arms and kissing the sweet, soft lips which made such a confession.

They walked on for a minute or two in silence, when she went on, as if she had been still considering the matter: 

“No, you must not come, Stafford.  My father is not strong, and—­and—­ah! well, you know, you saw him that other night—­the first night we met—­do you remember?  And he was walking in his sleep again the other evening.  If you were to come—­if I were to tell him that—­that you had asked me to be your wife, he might fly into a passion; it might do him harm.  Some time ago, when he was ill, the doctor told me that he must be kept quite quiet, and that nothing must be allowed to excite or irritate him.  He is very old and leads so secluded a life—­he sees no one now but myself.  Oh, how I would like you to come; how good it would be if—­if he would give me to you as other fathers give their daughters!  But I are not risk it!  I cannot!  Stafford”—­she put her hands on his breast and looked up at him—­“am I wrong to tell you all this—­to let you see how much I love you?  Is it—­unmaidenly of me?  Tell me if it is, and I will not do so for the future.  I will hide my heart a little better than I am doing at present.  Ah, see, it is on my sleeve!”