"I never saw anyone so horrid and unsympathising," muttered Ida, as she closed the door after her. "I wouldn't have believed it."
Miss Crane sat for more than an hour motionless, thinking. She sighed deeply now and again.
At length she stood up, and, taking the pile of letters she had written, tore them all up into fragments; then, putting on her bonnet and waterproof cloak, she went out and did not return home until late at night.
"Why, miss!" cried the landlady, as she came in white, tired, and wet; "you'll get your death stayin' out of doors such a day as this!"
"No," said Miss Crane gently. "It will do me no harm. I was obliged to go to town on business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I must leave you on Saturday."
"I'm sorry indeed to hear it," said the landlady. "Isn't that very suddint like?"
"Yes," agreed Miss Crane; "it is very sudden."
On Saturday, as Miss Crane was packing her trunk, suddenly Ida came bounding up the stairs into the room, all radiant with smiles and gaiety and flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, exclaiming—
"What do you think has happened I Oh! it's just too delightful. Somebody has given Cyril £700 a year—somebody who refuses to give his name. We're all dying with curiosity to find out who it can be. I'm certain it is somebody who has heard Cyril preach. Don't you think it is?"
"Yes," agreed Miss Crane. "Very likely it is."