“Nothing,” she answered sadly.  “I do not see what can help us, unless the man died,” she said; “and that is not likely.  Harold,” she went on, addressing him for the first time in her life by his Christian name, for she felt that after crying upon a man’s shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple about calling him by his name; “Harold, there is no help for it.  I did it myself, remember, because, as I told you, I do not think that any one woman has a right to place her individual happiness before the welfare of her family.  And I am only sorry,” she added, her voice breaking a little, “that what I have done should bring suffering upon you.”

He groaned again, but said nothing.

“We must try to forget,” she went on wildly.  “Oh no! no!  I feel it is not possible that we should forget.  You won’t forget me, Harold, will you?  And though it must be all over between us, and we must never speak like this again—­never—­you will always know I have not forgotten you, will you not, but that I think of you always?”

“There is no fear of my forgetting,” he said, “and I am selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, Ida.”

“Yes, indeed I will.  We all have our burdens to bear.  It is a hard world, and we must bear them.  And it will all be the same in the end, in just a few years.  I daresay these dead people here have felt as we feel, and how quiet they are!  And perhaps there may be something beyond, where things are not so.  Who can say?  You won’t go away from this place, Harold, will you?  Not until I am married at any rate; perhaps you had better go then.  Say that you won’t go till then, and you will let me see you sometimes; it is a comfort to see you.”

“I should have gone, certainly,” he said; “to New Zealand probably, but if you wish it I will stop for the present.”

“Thank you; and now good-bye, my dear, good-bye!  No, don’t come with me, I can find my own way home.  And—­why do you wait?  Good-bye, good-bye for ever in this way.  Yes, kiss me once and swear that you will never forget me.  Marry if you wish to; but don’t forget me, Harold.  Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I speak as one about to die to you, and I wish things to be clear.”

“I shall never marry and I shall never forget you,” he answered.  “Good-bye, my love, good-bye!”

In another minute she had vanished into the storm and rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his heart.

He, too, turned and went his way into the wild and lonely night.

An hour afterwards Ida came down into the drawing-room dressed for dinner, looking rather pale but otherwise quite herself.  Presently the Squire arrived.  He had been at a magistrate’s meeting, and had only just got home.

“Why, Ida,” he said, “I could not find you anywhere.  I met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told me that he saw you walking through the park.”