"Ida, I don't believe you are ill at all," said Vernon, scrutinising her.
"Her imagination makes her ill," put in Frances, who was knitting industriously. "She believes that she is sick, and therefore she _is_ sick."
"That is Christian Science," laughed Ida, sitting in a chair instead of returning to lounge on the sofa. "Perhaps you are right, dear. Of course, I have fretted a great deal over poor papa's death, but fretting will not bring him back," she ended with a sigh, and her face clouded over again.
"What you want is bright society," Vernon assured her hurriedly.
"And you suggest Mrs. Bedge," was Ida's ironical retort.
"No. I never thought that she was the right companion for you, as she is too staid and solemn; but I have discharged my conscience by putting her request to you. I never for one moment thought that you would entertain it."
Ida looked at him inquiringly. "You think that I am right?"
"Yes, I do. Miss Hest is a much better companion." Miss Hest bowed to the compliment with a grave smile.
"Oh, I mean what I say, my dear lady. Take Ida down to Gerby Hall and play the tyrant as much as possible by forcing her to keep in the open air all day. She will return quite cured."
"I don't think I should mind going to Yorkshire," said Ida pensively, as the tea was brought in; "and from what Frances says Gerby Hall must be a delightful old place. But then, my sojourn would be disagreeable, as Frances is not on good terms with her brother."