and described the incident to the Bishop's wife that morning, and she
had just told her guests, wondering who the lady could have been, and
they in turn had put their heads together and decided that there was no
one in the community but Ideala who would have done the thing in that
way.

"But what else could I have done?" she asked, when she saw we were
laughing at her.

"Well, my dear," said the Bishop, who always treated her with the kind
indulgence that is accorded to a favourite child, "you might have paid
the difference for the woman, and travelled comfortably yourself, don't
you know?"

Ideala never thought of that!

Presently the dear old Bishop nestled back in his chair, and with a
benign glance round, which, his scapegrace son said, meant: "Bless you,
my children! Be happy and good in your own way, but don't make a
noise!" he sank into a gentle doze, and the rest of the party relapsed
into trivial gossip, some of which I give for what it is worth by way
of illustration. It shows Ideala at about her worst, but marks a period
in her career, a turning-point for the better. She was seldom bitter,
and still more rarely frivolous, after that night.

"Clare Turner will take none of the blame of that affair on his own
shoulders," some one remarked.

"Mr. Clare Turner is the little boy who always said 'It wasn't me!'
grown up," Ideala decided, from the corner of her couch. "He is a sort