"Oh!" cried Miss Crane cheerfully. "Your father is a rich man, and very proud of his pretty little daughter; he will make it all right for you, never fear."
Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, called her "the dearest old thing in the world," and at last, promising to come the following evening, hurried away.
The next day was very stormy. The wind blew in great gusts from the east, rolling the waves in dashing breakers against the rocks. The rain descended in torrents. It was one of those days which sometimes come in autumn, precursor of the deadly tempests of the winter.
Miss Crane sat indoors, a shawl over her shoulders, writing letters round to her various employers and pupils, announcing the change in her circumstances. She had just closed the last envelope, and was putting the stamp on it, when the door burst open, and Ida rushed wildly into the room, her hair blown about her shoulders by the wind, and her waterproof cloak streaming with rain.
"Why, Ida, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Crane, aghast. "What is the matter?"
Ida threw herself on the sofa, sobbing violently.
"Oh! I don't know whatever I shall do," she began, as Miss Crane knelt down in alarm beside her. "Papa has been most dreadfully cross and angry with me, and he called Cyril a——" She stopped, her voice choked with sobs.
"A what?" demanded Miss Crane.
"He—he called him a——" said Ida, with another burst of indignant sobs, "a beggarly curate!"
"Then he does not personally object to Mr. Archdale?" said Miss Crane soothingly.