"It is too late in the day now to commence taking care of me. You have permitted me to grow up so wanting in mental and moral culture that you naturally suspect me of the vilest action. Henceforth I take care of myself, and act for myself;" and she abruptly left the room and went to Mr. Burleigh's office, requesting that the light phaeton and a safe horse, such as she could drive, should be sent around to he door at once.
"Miss Ida, you've not been well. Do you think you had better go out in the heat of the day?" asked Mr. Burleigh, kindly.
She looked at him a moment, and then said, a little impulsively,
"Mr. Burleigh, I thank you for speaking to me in that way. Yes,
I wish to go, and think I shall be better for it."
As she entered the large hall, Van Berg, who had been on the watch, rose to greet her, but she merely bowed politely and distantly, and passed at once into the dining room. After a hasty breakfast she returned to her room by a side passage, and prepared for her expedition, paying no heed to her mother's expostulations.
Van Berg was on the piazza when she came down, but she passed him swiftly, giving him no time to speak to her, and springing into the phaeton, drove away. His anxiety was so deep that he took pains to note the road she took, and then waited impatiently for her return.
After driving several miles, and making a few inquiries by the way, Ida found herself approaching an old-fashioned house secluded among the hills.
It was on a shady side road, into which but few eddies from the turbulent current of worldly life found their way.
The gate stood hospitably open, and she drove in under the shade of an enormous silver poplar, whose leaves fluttered in the breathless summer air, as if each one possessed a separate life of its own.
As she drew near to the house she saw old Mr. Eltinge coming from his garden to greet her.
"I had about given you up," he said, "and so you are doubly welcome. Old people are like children, and don't bear disappointments very well."