After the characteristic act by which Ida had identified the tree—once so bruised and broken—with herself, she sat down again at its foot and thought long and deeply. The deep hush and quiet of the quaint old garden was just what she needed after the delirium of her passion and despair. Her pulse began to grow more even, and her beautiful face sweet and noble with the better thoughts she now was entertaining. As she sat there leaning her head against the bole of the tree, the shadows of the leaves above deepening and brightening across her pale features, and her large, dark eyes often growing humid with sympathy with her thoughts, she made as fair a picture as could Eve herself, were she dreaming over her lost garden-home. At last she said slowly:

"I wonder if it will be possible for a Divine love gradually to supplant a human love? 'Whom to know is eternal life.' This hope seems to be my only hope—my only remedy, my one chance. I must soon go back to the city, where I cannot see good old Mr. Eltinge, where I will no longer have the excitement of occasionally meeting Mr. Van Berg, where I shall be fact to face with only the hard, prosaic difficulties that will abound in the world without, but especially in my own home. I plainly foresee that I shall become bitter, selfish, and reckless again, unless I find such a Friend as Mr. Eltinge describes, who will give me daily and positive help; a mere decorous, formal religion will be of no more use to me than pictures of bread to the famishing. I must have a strong, patient Friend who will see me through my troubles, or I'm lost. I may even grow as desperate and wicked as I have been again," and she buried her face in her hands and fairly trembled with apprehension.

"Come, my child, cheer up! All will end well yet. Take an old man's word for it. I've lived through several troubles that I thought would finish me, thanks to the good Lord, and here I am now, safe and sound and in the possession of two good homes—this one and the better one over the river they say is so dark. I don't believe it's much more of a river to the Christian than yonder little brook; but I can tell you, my child, we'll find a wonderful difference between the two shores."

Ida found that the old gentleman had joined her unperceived, and she told him of her fears.

"Now, don't worry," he answered, "about what will happen when you go back to the city. Christ himself has said: 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Your whole duty is to do your best now, and he'll take care of the future. He did not call himself the 'Good Shepherd' for nothing, as I and millions of others, know from experience. He'll see you over all the hard places, if you ask him to, and just follow patiently. You may not be able to see the way or know where he is leading you, any more than the sheep; but the path, however flinty and thorny, will end in the fold. Of that be assured." And he gave her one or two sad chapters from his own life of which he could now speak calmly and understandingly.

As they were about to part, Ida said: "Mr. Eltinge, I'm so ignorant that I have not the remotest idea how to commence this Christian life. I greatly wish to form a character worthy of respect, but I don't know how to set about it."

"Commence by living simple and true, my dear. Truthfulness is the corner-stone of the character that men most respect and God will honor. None of us can be perfect, but we can all be honest, and pretend to be no better than we are. Just simply follow your conscience, pray daily for light and guidance, and do the best you can. Live up to the light as you get it, and remember the good Lord will be as patient with you as a mother with her baby that is just learning to walk. Be truthful and sincere as you have been with me to-day, and all will be well."

Then he brought a step-ladder, and filled a little basket with pears. "They'll ripen nicely in your drawer," he said, "and I shouldn't wonder if you found 'em kind of nourishing to your soul as well as body, now you know how they grew."

With a promise to come on the morrow Ida drove away more cheered and comforted than she had thought it possible ever to be again. But as she approached the hotel piazza, and saw the artist talking with Jennie Burton, she experienced a sinking of heart that taught her how difficult her path must be at best.

Van Berg hastened down eagerly to assist her to alight, for her reappearance lifted a terrible load of anxiety from his mind. In spite of herself the color rushed into the cheeks which of late had become so pale, and the hand she gave him trembled as he helped her from the phaeton.

"I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you again. I've been oppressed with fear all day," he could not forbear saying, in a low tone.

"I suppose you naturally felt that you could not trust me," she replied, averting her face. "I've been spending the day with a friend."

"Forgive me," he said eagerly. "I seem fated to wound you, but I wish they might hereafter be the wounds of a friend."

She would not trust herself to look up till she became more composed, but could not resist the impulse to say: "Do friends give only wounds?"

Van Berg bit his lip and followed her slowly up the steps.

"I see from your basket," said Miss Burton, kindly, "that you have been foraging. I hope you had good success."

"Yes, I think I've been successful," replied Ida, who was desperately sorry that Miss Burton had intercepted her and must see her burning cheeks. "I have not found roses, as you did, but perhaps these are more in keeping with my prosaic and material nature;" and she lifted the cover and offered the fruit.

"You treat me better than I did you," said Miss Burton, smilingly, and ignoring an implied satire which Ida had not intended. "I did not give you any of my roses."

Ida shot a side glance at the artist which said to him plainly:

"But Mr. Van Berg did," and he flushed deeply.

Then she selected a superb pear, and after looking at it keenly a moment, handed it to him with the low words:

"I think you will find that no worm has been in that."

He took it with evident embarrassment and was about to speak eagerly, but she passed quickly in, and went to her room.

"I am justly punished," said Van Berg frankly. "Miss Burton, please let me explain her allusion."

"I would rather you would not," she replied promptly, "for Miss Mayhew made it in a low tone, showing that she intended it for your ear only."

"Well, then I must content myself by saying that standing near this spot, not long since, I acted like a fool."

"It's an excellent sign of wisdom, Mr. Van Berg," she said laughingly, "that you have discovered the fact. The only fools to be despaired of are those who never find themselves out."

"Did you ever do a very foolish thing, Miss Jennie?"

"It would be a very foolish thing for me to listen to any more of such monstrous flattery. Or perhaps you are satirical and take this roundabout way of telling me that I'm human like yourself. I'm going down to supper, for I prefer Mr. Burleigh's toast to such doubtful compliments."

"Miss Jennie, I protest, I never offered you a compliment in my life," he said, accompanying her.

"In the name of the King's English, what are compliments, then?"

"Mere verbal sugar-plums, sweet, cloying, and often poisonous. My expressions of honest opinion are, like Mr. Burleigh's toast you are so fond of, made of the finest wheat of truth, leavened by my irrepressible admiration, and done to the nicest shade of brown by the warmth of my FRIENDLY regard."

"Oh, oh, OH! Your compliments are verbal balloons."

"Yes, that figure might apply to them also, for these opinions of mine—not compliments, mark!—often carry me up above the clouds and vapors of earth."

"Where you will find the atmosphere exceedingly thin and cold, I assure you," said Miss Burton, with something like seriousness in her tone. "I must remind you, Mr. Van Berg, that even Jack Bunsby did not give his opinions till they were asked, and I will take some toast, if you please, in their stead."

Stanton and Mrs. Mayhew now appeared, and the conversation became general, in which the former made rather futile efforts to conceal his dejection. His aunt had told him that Ida had merely said she had spent the day with a friend, and that she would explain her absence at the proper time. "She has such a dignified way of speaking, that you are made to feel it is an insult to ask a question, so I shall just take her at her word, and leave her to herself," concluded the lady.

"She'll never forgive me," muttered Stanton.

A little later than the others, the object of his thoughts came down to supper. The deep color which the unexpected episode with the artist had caused now lingered only as a faint glow in her cheeks. She had fastened a few pear leaves in her hair, and wore no other ornament. Her thin white dress suggested rather than reveated the exquisite symmetry of her neck and arms, and Van Berg was compelled to admit to himself that his trained and critical eyes could scarcely detect a flaw in her marvellous beauty, or in the taste shown in her costume.

But there was something about her manner which appealed to him more than her beauty even. The evening before she had chilled their hearts by her unnatural and icy words and bearing. Now there was an expression of humility and diffidence wholly unlike anything he had ever seen before. She did not seem inclined to enter into conversation, and yet she was not repellant and cold, but rather seemed to shrink from notice, and to indicate that past memories were embarrassing. But she would not look at her cousin, for she still felt a deep resentment towards him. She was no saint because she had cherished some good thoughts and impulses that day, and as for poor Stanton, he became so depressed that he lapsed into utter silence.

Miss Burton was becoming deeply interested in Ida. When she saw her crimson face as the artist hastened to the phaeton, a sudden light had flashed into her eyes, and the thought crossed her mind:

"Mr. Van Berg is the magician who is unwittingly practising upon her and making her so unlike her former self," and as she hurriedly recalled the past, she found there was much in Ida's manner not inconsistent with this theory. Still it was not with any prying, gossipy interest, that she observed closely, in order to discover if there were good reasons for her surmise.

But Ida's manner was so quiet and guarded it would have required keener eyes than even Jennie Burton's to detect the hidden fire.

The meal promised to pass, with some constraint, it is true, but without any embarrassing incident, when Mrs. Mayhew was the means of placing poor Ida in a very painful dilemma. Under a general impulse to conciliate her daughter and make amends, and with her usual want of tact, she suddenly and sententiously said:

"Well, I think Ida's very brave to be able to drive for herself."

There was a moment of embarrassed silence after this unexpected remark, and then Miss Burton made matters far worse by saying, with the kindest intentions:

"After Miss Mayhew's adventure in the stage no one can doubt her courage, and I'm sure I admire a brave woman much more than a brave man. Men are brave as a matter of course." Then she saw from the sudden scarlet that flamed up into Ida's cheeks, and the manner of the artist, who suddenly became wholly absorbed in his supper, that she had made an unfortunate allusion. There was nothing to do but promptly change the subject, so she turned and asked:

"What is the greatest number of miles you have ever driven in a day, Mr. Stanton?"

"I beg your pardon!" said the preoccupied young man, starting at the sound of his name.

Miss Burton repeated her question. But in the meantime it was evident a severe conflict was going on in Ida Mayhew's mind. How could she obey Mr. Eltinge's injunction to be honest and true, if she let this false impression concerning her behavior in the stage remain? How could she hope to win a particle of respect from Van Berg if she received again this undeserved praise? How could she look her kind old friend in the face if she continued silent? She felt she must either speak or take the pear leaves out of her hair. It was hard, bitter hard to speak then and there before them all, but her indecision soon gave place to the resolve to lay at once what Mr. Eltinge had called the corner-stone of character.

"Miss Burton," she said abruptly, as Stanton was trying to collect his wits so as to make a suitable reply.

They all looked at her involuntarily. Her face was pale now, and had the white, resolute aspect often seen in those about to face great danger.

"Miss Burton, I am sorry to say you have a false impression of my conduct in the stage. So far from showing presence of mind and courage on that occasion, I was terror-stricken and, I believe, hysterical. With all my faults, I shall at LEAST try to tell the truth hereafter."

"By Jupiter!" cried the impulsive Stanton, "that's the pluckiest thing I ever saw a woman do, or man either. Ida, from this day I'm proud of you, though you have little occasion to be so of me."

The poor girl had looked steadily at Miss Burton while speaking, but the moment the ordeal was over her lip quivered like that of a child, and she hastily left the table.

She had scarcely mounted half the stairs that led to her room before
Van Berg was at her side.

"Miss Mayhew," he said eagerly, "I did not sleep last night, nor can I to-night until assured of your forgiveness. Myself I can never forgive."

Her heart was full and her nerves overstrained already. She could not speak, but she bowed her head on the rail of the balustrade, hiding her face against her arm, and strove hard to check the rising sobs.

"Miss Mayhew," he continued, in low, pleading tones, "in all my life I never condemned myself so bitterly as I have for my treatment of you. I can only appeal to your generosity. I NEED your forgiveness," and he waited for her answer.

But she could not answer. It seemed as if she could not maintain even her partial self-control a moment longer. Her heart forgave him, however, and she wished him to know it, so without lifting her head she held out her hand in the place of the words she could not trust herself to utter. He seized it eagerly, and it so trembled and throbbed in his grasp that it made him think of a wounded bird that he once had captured.

"I take your hand, Miss Mayhew," he said earnestly, "not as a sign of truce between us, but as a token of forgiveness, and the pledge of reconciliation and friendship. Your brave truth-telling to-night has atoned for your past. Please give me a chance at least to try to atone for mine."

His only reply was a faint pressure from her hand and then she sped up the stairway. He did not see her again till she came down to breakfast the following morning, when she treated him with a quiet, distant, well-bred courtesy that did not suggest the sobbing girl who had fled from him the evening before, much less the despairing, desperate woman who had given him the drug with which she had intended to end her existence. They who see conventional surfaces only know but little of life.

Truthful as she was trying to be, she was puzzling him more than ever, although he was giving a great deal of thought to the problem. zj5rOD119pDSQdC+OPqudeyXm9zupiG7kgj8q0+91uqt8kBdATdDnVghFtVpKFaH