"Yon have not told me," she said one day, "whether you lived in New York, San Francisco or Boston."
"Most of my life was spent in a little village outside of the great metropolis," said Ida, inwardly hoping the inquisitive girl would not think of asking the name of the village.
Vivian did think of it, but concluded that it would be wisest not to pursue her inquiries too ardently.
"All this ought to have been mine," muttered Vivian, clinching her hands tightly—"all mine! I loved him first, and I loved him best. She had no right to take him from me!"
These thoughts often ran through Vivian's mind while Ida was talking to her, believing she was entertaining the best and truest friend she had in the great cruel world.
If the young wife had known her as she really was, she would have turned in utter loathing from the beautiful pink-and-white face; she would have prayed Heaven to save her from this, her greatest foe.
As it was, she saw only Vivian Deane's beauty and grace. She heard only kindness in her voice, and she thought to herself that she was very fortunate indeed in securing such a friend.
She talked and laughed so happily that the poor young wife almost forgot her sorrow while listening to her.
Vivian wondered if by any chance the young bride had found out how desperately she had been in love with her husband in other days.
The young wife became more and more unhappy day by day. Once, in following the windings of a brook, Ida was startled at finding herself several miles from home. Glancing up with a start, she found that the sun had almost reached its height. She had been gone longer than she had intended.