y less. But she insisted that
he should not trouble the girl by demanding explanations of her, as that,
by vexing her, would only make matters worse.

If, indeed, Paul had any disposition to take the attitude of an aggrieved
person, it vanished when he met Ida at the tea-table. The sight of her
swollen eyes and red lids, and the piteous looks, of deprecating
tenderness which from time to time she bent on him, left room for nothing
in his heart but a great love and compassion. Whatever might be the
secret of this strange caprice it was evidently no mere piece of
wantonness. She was suffering from it as much as he.

He tried to get a chance to talk with her; but Miss Ludington, feeling
slightly ill, went to her room directly after tea, and Ida accompanied
her to see that she was properly cared for, and got comfortably to bed.
After waiting a long while for her to come downstairs, Paul concluded
that she did not intend to appear again, and went off for a walk, in the
hope thereby of regaining something of his equanimity.

It was about ten o'clock when he returned home. As he came in sight of
the house he saw by the light reflected from the sitting-room windows
that there was some one upon the piazza. As he came nearer he perceived
that it was Ida. She was sitting sidewise upon a long, cane-bottomed
settee, and her arms were thrown upon the back of it to form a sort of
pillow on which her head rested. His tread upon the turf was inaudible,
and she neither saw nor heard him as he approached, nor when, softly
mounting the steps, he stood over her.

She was indeed sobbing with such violence that she could not have been
easily sensible of anything external. Paul had never heard such piteous
weeping. He had never seen much of women's crying, and he did not know
what abandonment of grief their tender frames can sustain--grief that
seemingly would kill a man if he could feel it. Long, gurgling sobs
followed one another as the waves of the sea sweep over the head of a
straggling swimmer. Every now and then they were interrupted by sharp
cries of exquisite anguish, such as might be wrung out by the sudden
twist of a rack, and then would come a low, shrill crooning sound, almost
musical, beyond which it seemed grief could not go.

The violence of the paroxysm would pass, and she would grow calmer,
drawing long, shuddering breaths as she struggled back to self-control.
Then a quick panting would begin and grow faster and faster, t