"Shall I come to your father to-morrow, Ida? I will ride over after
breakfast--before, if you like: if I had my way I'd patrol up and down
here all night until it was a decent time to call upon him."
She nestled a little closer to him, and her brows came level with
sudden gravity and doubt.
"My father! I had not thought of him--of what he would say--do. But I
know! He--he will be very angry," she said, in a low voice.
"Will he? Why?" Stafford asked. "Of course I know I'm not worthy of
you, Ida; no living man is!"
"Not worthy!"
She smiled at him with the woman's worship already dawning in her deep
grey eyes.
"It is I who am not worthy. Why, think! I am only an inexperienced
girl--living the life of a farmer's daughter. We are very poor--oh, you
do not know how poor! We are almost as poor as the smallest tenant,
though we live in this big house, and are still regarded as great
people--the Herons of Herondale."
"That's one of the things I have been thinking of," said Stafford.
"What lovely hair you have, Ida! It is not often that dark hair is so
soft, is it?"
He bent down and drew a look, which his caresses had released, across
her lips, and kissed her through it.
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