"Please tell me, Cousin John, what it is I have done, what it is you complain of?" she broke in.
Angered by the interruption, for there is nothing a man like John Heron hates worse, he snapped out:
"You have been trying to snare the affections of my son; you have even cast lascivious eyes at the stranger within our gates."
The blood rushed to Ida's face; then she laughed outright, the laugh of desperation; for indeed, she despaired of convincing these stupid people of her innocence. The laugh naturally exasperated John Heron, and his gaunt face grew pallid for an instant.
"I understand!" he said. "You treat our remonstrances with scorn, you scoff at our rebuke."
"Yes; I am afraid I can't help it, Cousin John," said Ida. "I am sorry that you should think me so wicked and so—dangerous, and I quite agree with Isabel and her mother that if I am as bad as you say, I am not fit to live in a respectable house and with—decent people. It would be useless for me to assure you that you are all ridiculously mistaken."
"My wife and daughter saw with their own eyes. I am informed that my son is at this very moment in bed, prostrated by your heartless conduct; you have trifled with that most delicate and sacred of things, a human heart. Go to your chamber, Ida, and there I trust you will seek repentance on your knees."
There was silence for a moment, then Ida said, very quietly:
"Have you anything more to say to me?"
"Not to-night," said John, sternly. "I am wearied with well-doing. I have been preaching, calling sinners, like yourself, to a better life. To-morrow I will speak with you again, I will endeavour to snatch a brand from the burning."