She fell asleep at last and slept an hour beyond her usual time, and so deeply that Jessie had filled the cold bath without waking her beloved young mistress.  Ida dressed quickly, all the incidents of the preceding night rushing through her mind, and hurried to her father’s room; the door was open, the room empty, and, with a sudden fear, she ran down the stairs and found him in his usual seat in the library.  She drew a long breath and went and kissed him, wishing him good-morning as casually as she could.

“You are up early this morning, father,” she said, trying to keep her tone free from any anxiety.

He glanced at the clock calmly.

“No, you are later,” he said.

His eyes met hers with their usual expression of absentminded serenity.

“I—­I was a little tired and overslept myself,” she said.  “Are—­are you quite well this morning, father?”

“Yes, quite well.  Why not?” he replied, with slight surprise.

She drew a breath of relief:  it was quite evident that he knew nothing of that weird walk, and that it had not affected him injuriously.

“Nothing,” she said, forcing a smile.

As she spoke, Jason, in his in-door livery, which, in some strange way, looked as if it had shrunken with the figure which had worn, it so long, came to the door, and in his husky voice said that breakfast was ready; and Ida, taking her father’s arm, led him into the dining-room in which all their meals were served.

As she went to her place she glanced through the window, from which she could see the steps at the corner of the terrace and a small part of the ruined chapel, and she shuddered.

When she had poured out her father’s coffee, she took it round to him and let her hand rest on his shoulder lovingly; but Jason had brought in the post-bag and Mr. Heron was unlocking it and taking out the few letters and papers, and seemed unconscious of the little anxious caress.

“Are there any for me, father?” she asked, lingering beside him, and she stretched out her hand to turn the envelopes on their right side; but he stopped her quickly and swept them together, covering them with his long hand—­the shapely Heron hand.

“No, no,” he said, almost sharply; “they are all for me; they are business letters, booksellers’ catalogues, sale catalogues—­nothing of importance.”

She went back to her place and he waited until she had done so before he began to open the letters.  He merely glanced at some of them, but presently he came to one which, after a sharp, quick look at her, he read attentively; then he returned it to its envelope and, with a secretive movement, slipped it into the pocket of his dressing-gown.  “Yes, nothing but catalogues and bills; you’d better take them, Ida; the bills, at any rate.”

And he threw them across to her.

When she had first come home to be mistress of the Hall the bills had overwhelmed her; they had been so many and the money to meet them had been so inadequate; but she had soon learnt how to “finance” them, and come to know which account must be paid at once, and which might be allowed to stand over.