Mayhew.
"Nothing unusual. I suppose father heard one of Mr. Sibley's
compliments; and that was enough to disgust any sensible man.
Good-night."
"My gracious! You might as well turn me out of your room."
"Mother, I wish to be alone," said Ida, passionately.
"A pretty life I lead of it between you and your father," sobbed
Mrs. Mayhew, retreating to her own apartment.
"A hateful, wretched life we all three shall lead to the end
of time, for aught that I can see," Ida groaned as she restlessly
paced her room; "but I have no better resource than to follow
father's example."
She took an opiate, and so escaped from thought for a time in the
deep lethargy it brought.
Chapter XXV. Half-truths.
A church bell was ringing in a neighboring village the following
morning when Ida awoke. The sunlight streamed in at the open window
through the half-closed blinds, flecking the floor with bars of
light. Birds were singing in the trees without, and a southern
breeze rustled through the foliage as a sweet low accompaniment.
Surely it was a bright pleasant world on which her heavy eyes were
opening.
Poor child! she was fast learning now that the darkest clouds that
shadow our paths are not the vapors that rise from the earth, but
the thoughts and memories of an unhappy and a sinful heart.
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