“Quite so, quite so,” interrupted Mr. Wordley again.  “Then I think the sooner Miss Ida joins you the better; and I would suggest that she goes with you to-morrow.  I will close the house and leave Jessie, the maid-servant, and Jason in charge.  You and Miss Ida can depend on my guarding her interests as jealously as if they were my own.  I will have a sale of the stock and other things which we are free to sell, and, meanwhile, Miss Ida must permit me to advance her some money on account of the proceeds.”

He handed her an envelope in which he had already placed some bank-notes; but Ida looked at him and slowly shook her head.

“No, no, my dear!” he said.  “I should not be guilty of such presumption.  Though you are leaving Heron Hall, though it may be passing away from you forever, you are still, in my eyes, Miss Heron of Herondale, and I should not presume to offer you—­” His voice broke, and his eyes filled with tears.  “The money is yours, and you can take it without any loss of the pride which is your rightful heritage.  If I have not offered you a home where you would indeed be an honoured guest, it is because I know that it would not be fitting for me to offer it, or you to accept it.  Mr. John Heron is your natural guardian; but though that is so, I will ask you to remember that I claim the privilege of being your father’s friend and yours, and that in any trouble you will be but honouring that privilege when you come to me for advice and assistance.”

His voice was almost inaudible before he had finished, and Ida, down whose cheek tears were running for the first time, extended both hands in mute but eloquent gratitude.  They had both forgotten Mr. John Heron’s presence but were reminded of it by something between a cough and a sniff from him; and at a glance from Mr. Wordley, Ida turned to the gaunt figure and held out her hand.

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice, “I will come with you and stay with you until—­until—­I can find something to do, something at which I can earn my own living.  Surely there must be something I can do?” She turned to Mr. Wordley with a little anxious, eager gesture.  “I am strong—­very strong; I have managed Herondale—­I can ride, and—­and understand a farm.  I am never tired.  Surely there is something I can do!”

Her voice broke, she began to tremble, and the tears started to her eyes again.

“Yes, yes; no doubt, no doubt, my child!” said Mr. Wordley, whose own eyes were moist.  “We will think about all that later on.  You must go now and rest; you are tired.”

He drew her arm within his, and patting her hand tenderly and encouragingly, led her out of the room; and stood in the hall watching her as she slowly went up the great stairs; such a girlish, mournful figure in her plain black dress.