She looked at the crescent of the moon, and the great depth of light of the star, and her own affairs seemed to quiet her with their very littleness.  What was little Maria Edgham and her ridiculous and tragic matrimonial tangle compared with the eternal light of those strange celestial things yonder?  She would pass, and they would remain.  She became comforted.  She even reflected that she was hungry.  She had not obeyed her father’s injunction, and had eaten very little luncheon.  She thought with pleasure of the good dinner which would be awaiting her.  Then suddenly she remembered how she had talked to Her.  How would she be treated?  But she remembered that Ida could not have said anything against her to her father, or, if she had done so, it had made no difference to him.  She considered Ida’s character, and it seemed to her quite probable that she would make no further reference to the subject.  Ida was averse even to pursuing enmities, because of the inconvenience which they might cause her.  It was infinitely less trouble to allow birds which had pecked at her to fly away than to pursue them; then, too, she always remained unshaken in her belief in herself.  Maria’s tirade would not in the least have disturbed her self-love, and it is only a wound in self-love which can affect some people.  Maria was inclined to think that Ida would receive her with the same coldly radiant smile as usual, and she was right.  That night, when she entered the bright parlor, glowing with soft lights under art-shades, Ida, in her pretty house-gown—­scarlet cashmere trimmed with medallions of cream lace—­greeted her in the same fashion as she had always done.  Evelyn ran forward with those squeals of love which only a baby can accomplish.  Maria, hugging her little sister, saw that Ida’s countenance was quite unchanged.

“So you have got home?” said she.  “Is it very cold?”

“Not very,” replied Maria.

“I have not been out, and I did not know,” Ida said, in her usual fashion of making commonplaces appear like brilliances.

“There may be a frost, I don’t know,” Maria said.  She was actually confused before this impenetrability.  Remembering the awful things she had said to Her, she was suddenly conscience-stricken as she saw Ida’s calm radiance of demeanor.  She began to wonder if she had not been mistaken, if Ida was not really much better than she herself.  She knew that is she had had such things said to her she could not have appeared so forgiving.  Such absolute self-love, and self-belief, was incomprehensible to her.  She had accused Ida of more than she could herself actually comprehend.  She began to think Ida had a forgiving heart, and that she herself had been the wicked one, not She.  She responded to everything which Ida said with a conciliatory air.  Presently Harry came in.  He was late.  He looked very worn and tired.  Ida sent Josephine up-stairs to get his smoking-jacket and slippers, and Maria thought She was very kind to her father.  Evelyn climbed into his arms, but he greeted even her rather wearily.  Ida noticed it.