“I said that I had come to know you by chance, and that—­strange as it might sound—­we were simply friends.”  He glanced for an instant at Ida; her eyes were turned to the ground.  “You will believe me,” he went on quickly, “when I tell you that I really said nothing more?”

“I never doubt a word of yours,” was Ida’s quiet reply.

“Casti was overjoyed at the thought of finding such a friend for his wife.  Of course I told him that he must not certainly count either on your consent or on his wife’s.  Hers I thought to be perhaps more doubtful than yours.”

“Could I really be of any use to her,” asked Ida, after a silence, “with so little free time as I have?”

“Supposing she would welcome you, I really believe you could be of great use.  She is a strange creature, miserably weak in body and mind.  If you could get to regard this as a sort of good work you were called upon to undertake, you would very likely be little less than an angel of mercy to both of them.  Casti is falling into grievous unhappiness—­why, you will understand sufficiently if you come to know them.”

“Do you think she bears malice against me?”

“Of that I know nothing.  Casti said she had never spoken of you in that way.  By-the-by, she still has a scar on her forehead, I often wondered how it came there.”

Ida winced.

“What a little termagant you must have been!” exclaimed Waymark, laughing.  “How hard it is to fancy you at that age, Ida.—­What was the quarrel all about?”

“I can’t speak of it,” she replied, in a low, sad voice.  “It is so long ago; and I want to forget it.”

Waymark kept silence.

“Do you wish me to be her friend?” Ida asked, suddenly looking up.

“Certainly not if you dislike the thought.”

“No, no.  But you think it would be doing good? you would like me to help your friend if I can?”

“Yes, I should,” was Waymark’s reply.

“Then I hope she will be willing to let me go and see her.  I will do my very best.  Let us lose no time in trying.  It is such a strange thing that we should meet again in this way; perhaps it is something more than chance.”

Waymark smiled.

“You think I am superstitious?” she asked quickly.  “I often feel so.  I have all sorts of hopes and faiths that you would laugh at.”

Ida’s thoughts were busy that night with the past and the future.  The first mention of Harriet’s name had given her a shock; it brought back with vividness the saddest moments of her life; it awoke a bitter resentment which mere memory had no longer kept the power to revive.  That was only for a moment, however.  The more she accustomed herself to the thought, the easier it seemed to be to bury the past in forgiveness.  Harriet must have changed so much since those days.  Possibly there would never be a mention between them of the old trouble; practically they would be new