“No, sir, not a bit,” replied the landlord, with a thoughtful and somewhat puzzled frown.  “Quite the reverse.  His father was free and easy with everybody, and had a pleasant word and shake of the hand for everyone he met; but the present squire was always shy and quiet as a boy; kind of reserved and stand-offish, if you know what I mean, sir.  When he came into the property, he became more reserved than ever, avoided all his father’s old friends and shut himself up at the Hall and kept himself to himself.  He was a college gentleman and fond of books, and he spent all his time alone in his library like a—­a hermit.  He went abroad for a time, to Italy, they thought, and he came back with a wife; but she didn’t make things more lively, for she died soon after Miss Ida was born.  Miss Ida was the only child.  She was sent away for some time to be taken care of by one of the relatives, and she’s only been back for a couple of years.”

“Poor girl,” said Stafford, involuntarily.

“Well, yes, you may say that, sir,” said the landlord, but doubtfully, “though it don’t seem as if Miss Ida was in need of much pity; she is so bright and—­and high-spirited, as you may say; though it’s a wonder she can be so, seeing the life she leads, alone in that great place with her father, who never goes beyond the garden, and who shuts himself up with his books all day.  Yes, it’s a wonder, when you come to think of it, that she can smile and laugh and be as cheerful as she is.  I often hear her singing when she’s riding through the dale or along the road here.  Miss Ida’s wonderfully liked by all the people, sir; in fact, you might say that they worship her.”

“I can understand it,” said Stafford, almost to himself.

“It must have been great change to her,” continued the landlord, “coming down here from London to such a wild, out-of-the-way place; many young ladies would have lost heart and pined and fretted; but she’s a true Heron, is Miss Ida, and she faced the thing fairly and buckled to, as you may say.  She took the whole thing on her shoulders, and though she couldn’t coax the squire out of his shell, she takes care of him and runs the whole place as if she were a man.  Yes, sir, though she’s only a girl, as you saw yourself, she manages the house and the farm as if she were a woman of forty.  It’s wonderful how she’s picked it up.  I honestly believe there isn’t a man in the place as knows more about horses, as I said, than she does; but that’s in the blood, sir, and she can ride—­well, you saw for yourself.”

“And has she no society, no amusements; doesn’t she go out, have friends, I mean?”

The landlord shook his head.

“No, sir; she just lives there with the squire, and they see no one, receive no visits and pay none.  You see, sir, the Herons are proud; they’re got cause to be, and I’ve heard it told that the squire is too proud to let the old family friends see the poverty of the house, and that he hates the new people who bought land and built houses in the place—­I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir—­I was forgetting for the moment that your father, Sir Stephen, had just built that beautiful place the other side of the lake.”