Mr. Heron groaned again, and shook his head.

“The prevailing vice of this most wicked of ages,” he said.  “The love of money, the gambling on the race-course and the Stock Exchange, are the root of all evil.”

Ida seemed not to hear him, and Mr. Wordley ignored the comment.

“It now remains for you, my dear child, to decide what to do.  I do not think you could possibly live on here; you have not the means to do so, though you should be as economical as you have been in the past; the house must pass away from you in six months’ time or little more, and there would be nothing gained by your lingering hopelessly here for that period.”

“I must go, then,” said Ida, as if there were a stab in every word.

Mr. Wordley bent his head, and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, I fear you must go,” he assented.  “But, thank God, you are not without friends, many friends.  Lord Bannerdale charges me to tell you what his good wife has already written you—­that a home awaits you at the Court, where you will be received gladly and lovingly; and I am quite sure that the door of every house in the dale is wide open for you.”

Ida shrank in her chair.  Clothe the offer as kindly as he might, it spelt Charity, not cold charity, but charity still:  and what Heron had ever tamely accepted charity from mere friends and strangers?  Mr. Wordley saw the shrinking, the little shudder, and understood.

“I understand, my dear!” he said, in a low voice.  “But there is another offer, another home which you can accept without humiliation or compunction.  Your cousin, Mr. John Heron here, will, I am sure, be only too glad, too delighted to—­to—­”

He waited and glanced at Mr. Heron impatiently, and at last that gentleman rose, but not too eagerly, to the occasion.

“I need scarcely say,” he said, slowly and solemnly, “that I should not approve of my cousin’s accepting these offers of charity, which, though no doubt kindly meant, appear to me somewhat—­er—­obtrusive.  I am not a wealthy man; my simple home cannot compare in size and grandeur with Heron Hall and the estate which my late unfortunate cousin appears to have squandered, but such as it is, Ida will be welcome in it.  I am not one to turn a deaf ear to the cry of the orphan and fatherless.”

Mr. Wordley frowned and reddened, and cut in before Mr. John Heron could finish his sentence even more offensively, and so rouse Ida’s spirit, and render his offer impossible of acceptance.

“Quite so, quite so, my dear sir,” he said.  “I am quite sure you will feel only too delighted and honoured at the prospect of taking this dear child into your family.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Heron, unctuously, “we will take her in as a lamb gathered into the fold, as a brand is plucked from the burning.”

Ida looked at him half stupefied, and it is to be feared some doubts of his sanity arose in her mind.