face and her heart seemed to stand still for a moment, for she saw that it was Maude Falconer; then her face grew pale and a wave of bitterness, grew over her, for she recognised the horse on which Maude was riding:  it was Stafford’s Adonis.  Her first impulse was to turn aside and leave the field; but her pride revolted, and she kept her course, looking straight before her and trying not to see the graceful figure below her.

At sight of her, the blood had flown to Maude’s face also, and she tried to check her horse; but Adonis, at any time rather more than she could well manage, was fresh and too eager to join the other horse, and he carried her up the field against her will.  The two met almost face to face, the horses exchanging friendly neighs.  For a moment, while one could count twenty, the two rivals sat and looked at each other.  Half unconsciously, Ida noticed the pallor and the worn look of the beautiful face, the wistful peevishness of the delicately cut lip; then suddenly Maude’s face flushed, her eyes grew hard and scornful, and with something like a sneer she said, in a metallic tone: 

“I beg your pardon, but are you aware that you are trespassing?”

A saint would have turned on such provocation; and Ida, being no saint, felt that her face was as crimson as the other girl’s, and grew as hot of heart as of face.  She set her lips tightly and tried to remain silent:  surely it would be better, in every way better, to ride on without a word.  But it was more than she could do:  and she drew herself up and her eyes flashed back the challenge, as she said in a low but distinct voice: 

“Pardon me, but you are mistaken.  The land on which I am riding belongs to me.”  Maude grew pale again, and her lips set closely until the line of red almost disappeared.

“Is this not, then, part of the Villa estate?” she asked.

“No; it is part of the Herondale estate,” replied Ida, rather more gently:  for was it not horrible that she should be engaged in altercation with Stafford’s future wife?

“Then I presume I have the honour of speaking to Miss Heron,” said Maude, with an indefinable air, combining contempt and defiance, which brought the colour to Ida’s face again.

“My name is Ida Heron; yes,” she said.

“Then, if you are making no mistake, it is I who am trespassing,” said Maude, “and it is I who must apologise.  Pray consider that I do so most fully, Miss Heron.”

“No apology is necessary,” said Ida, still more gently.  “You are quite welcome to ride over this or any part of Herondale.”

Maude gave a little scornful laugh.

“Thanks, it’s very good of you!” she said, haughtily, and with that covert offensiveness of which, alas! a woman alone is capable.  “I do not think I shall have any desire to avail myself of your kind permission; the public roads and the land belonging to my father’s house will, I think, prove quite sufficient for me.  I am the daughter of Mr. Falconer, of the Villa at Brae Wood.”