Suddenly he turned to her.
"There is but one course left open to us," he said, huskily, "and that we must follow. You are my wife, and I must take you to the home that has been prepared to receive my bride."
She uttered a low cry; but before she could speak, he hastened to add:
"No advantage shall be taken of the position in which you are so strangely placed. You shall be my wife in the eyes of the world, but to me you shall be just as sacred as a sister. We will live our lives through in this way."
She bowed her head. Whatever he suggested must be wisest and best, she thought.
"Indeed, I can see no other way out of it at the present outlook," he went on, his voice trembling a little. "I will take you to a hotel near where I am stopping. To-morrow, at this time, I will come for you to take the train with me!"
A little later Ida found herself alone in the comfortable room which he had secured for her at the hotel.
It was then and not until then that the poor girl gave vent to her grief, suffering almost as deeply as did Hildegarde, as the long hours of the night passed away.
The sun was shining bright and warm when she opened her eyes the next morning. For a moment she was dazed and bewildered; then a rush of memory came to her, and she remembered all that had taken place. She sprung from her couch with a bitter sob on her lips. Some one tapped at the door. It was the chamber-maid.