"Mr. Eltinge," Ida asked, as they were about to part, "have I a right to the glad sense of escape and safety that has come so unexpectedly?"

"Your right," he replied, "depends on the character of the Friend you have found. Do you think he is able and willing to keep his word?"

"Oh, Mr. Eltinge, how plain you make it all!"

"No, my dear; it was made plain centuries ago. You have as much right to your happy feelings as to the sunshine; but never put your feelings in the place of Christ, and trust in them. That's like putting faith in one's gratitude, instead of the friend whose services inspired the gratitude. But come again to-morrow, and we'll go on with the 'old, old story.' I've read it scores of times, but am enjoying it now with you more than ever. Good-by."

As Ida drew near to the hotel, Stanton stepped from the roadside to meet her.

"Ida," he said, "if you cannot forgive me (and perhaps you cannot), I'll leave to-morrow morning—and perhaps I had better any way. I fear it was an evil day for us both when we came to this place."

"I've thought so too, Cousin Ik," she said kindly; "but I don't now. I'm glad I came here, though it has cost me a great deal of suffering and—and—may—but no matter. I was better and worse than you thought me. I must in sincerity say that it has been hard to forgive you, for your suspicion wounded me more deeply than you'll ever know. But my own need of forgiveness has taught me to forgive others; and I now see that I also have been very disagreeable to you, Ik. Let us exchange forgiveness and be friends."

"Ida, what has come over you? You are no more like the girl that I brought to the country than I'm like the self-satisfied fool that accompanied you."

"No, Ik, you are not a fool, and never were; but, like myself, you had a good deal of self-complacency, and not much cause for it. Pardon me for speaking plainly, but after what has passed between us we can afford to be frank. You may not win Jennie Burton, but I believe she'll wake you up, and make a strong, genuine man of you."

"Ida," he said in a low tone, and with lips that quivered a little, "I'm not sorry that I love Jennie Burton, though in consequence I may never see another happy day. But good-by; I'm too confoundedly blue to-day to speak to another mortal. It's a great relief, though, that you have forgiven me. I wouldn't if I had been in your place, and don't think I forgive myself because you have let me off so easily;" and he turned hastily away, and was soon lost to her view in the shrubbery by the roadside.

If Ida had puzzled Van Berg in the morning, he was still more perplexed in the evening. Slight traces of her deep emotion still lingered around her eyes, but in the eyes themselves there shone a light and hopefulness which he had never seen before, and which he could not interpret. Moreover, her face was growing so gentle and womanly, so free from the impress of all that had marred it heretofore, that he could not help stealing glances so often that were Jennie Burton of a jealous disposition she might think his interest not wholly artistic. Although there was much of the shrinking and retiring manner of the morning, and she did not join in the general conversation, all traces of resentment and coldness towards her companions had vanished. She was considerate and even kind to her mother, but in reply to her questions concerning the people she had visited, said gently but firmly:

"I will take you there some day, mother, and then you can judge for yourself."

But with the exception of a promptness to check all reference to herself and the day's experiences, her manner was so different from what Mrs. Mayhew had been accustomed to, that she could not help turning many perplexed and curious glances toward her daughter, and was evidently no better able to understand the subtle and yet real change than was the artist himself.

Miss Burton, with her keen, delicate perceptions, recognized this difference more fully than any of the others; and her instinct, rather than anything she saw in Ida, enabled her to divine the cause in part. "I know of but one thing that can account for Miss Mayhew's behavior," she thought, "and though she guards her secret well, she cannot deceive a woman who has passed through my experience. I begin to see it all. She used Sibley as a blind, and she was blind herself, poor child, when she did so, to everything save the one womanly necessity of hiding an unsought love. Well, well, my outspoken lover has eyes for her sweet, chastened beauty to-night. Perhaps he thinks he is studying her face as an artist. Perhaps he is. But it strikes me that he has lost the critical and judicial expression which I have noticed hitherto," and a glimmer of a smile that did not in the least suggest the "green-eyed monster" hovered for a moment like a ray of light over Jennie Burton's face.

"Mother," said Ida, in a low, sympathetic tone, "I see one of your headaches coming on. Let me bathe your head after tea."

"Ida," whispered Mrs. Mayhew, "you are so changed I don't know you."

The young girl flushed slightly, and by a quick, warning look checked all further remark of this tendency.

"She is indeed marvelously changed," thought Miss Burton. "I feel it even more than I can see it. There must be some other influence at work. Who are these friends she is visiting, and who send her back to us daily with some unexpected grace? Yesterday it was truthfulness—to-day an indescribable charm of manner that has banished the element of earthiness from her beauty. I think I will join my friend (who imagines himself something more) in the study of a problem that is becoming intensely interesting."

"Miss Mayhew," Van Berg found a chance to say after supper, "you are becoming a greater enigma to me than ever."

"Well," she replied, averting her face to hide the color that would rise at his rather abrupt and pointed address, "I'd rather be a Chinese puzzle to you than what I was."

"And I no doubt have appeared to you like a Chinese Mandarin, Grand Turk, Great Mogul, not name self-satisfied Pharisees, and all of that ilk."

"I can't say that you have, and yet I've keenly felt your superiority. I think the character you are now enacting is more becoming than any of those would be, however."

"What is that?" he asked quickly.

"Well," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know how to describe it, but it suggests a little the kindness which, they say, makes all the world kin. Good-night, Mr. Van Berg."

"Miss Jennie," he said, later in the evening, "you have an insight into character which we grosser mortals do not possess. Do you think that there is a marked change taking place in Miss Mayhew?"

"And so you expect me to read Miss Mayhew's secrets and gossip about them with you?" she answered with one of her piquant smiles.

"What a sweetbrier you are! Now tell me in your own happy way how you would describe this change which you see and understand far more clearly than I."

"I'll give you one thought that has occurred to me and then leave you to solve the problem for yourself. Have you ever seen a person who had been delirious or deranged become sand and quiet, simple and natural? Although Miss Mayhew's expression and manner are so different from what we have seen hitherto, she looks and acts to-night just as one instinctively feels she ought always to appear in order to be her true self. Before there was discord; now there is harmony."

"If I had your eyes I'd never read books. You suggest the effect perfectly, but what is the cause?"

"Was a man ever satisfied?"

"One certainly never is where you are concerned, but will always echo Oliver Twist's plaintive appeal for 'more.'"

"O constant moon! register that vow," said Miss Burton, laughing. "Mr. Van Berg, one of the first rules that I teach my young ladies is to say good-evening to a gentleman when he grows sentimental," and she smiling vanished through a window that opened on the piazza.

"Jennie Burton," he muttered, "you are a wraith, an exquisite ghost that will haunt me all my days, but on which I can never lay my hands."

The next morning the artist, in his kindling interest, was guilty of a stratagem. He took an early breakfast by himself, under the pretence that he was going on a sketching expedition; but he went straight to the brow of a little hill that overlooked the road which Ida must take should she visit her new-found friends again. He soon became very busy with his sketch-book, but instead of outlines of the landscape before him taking shape on the paper, you might have seen the form of a young girl on a stairway with her head bowed on her right arm that rested on the baluster rail, which she timidly held out her left hand in the pace of words she could not speak.

It was with a foreboding sigh that Ida realized how much she missed him at breakfast.

Before the meal was over a letter was handed to Mrs. Mayhew. It contained only these words from her husband: "In memory of my last visit I conclude it will be mutually agreeable to us all that I spend Sunday elsewhere. You need not dread my coming."

She handed the letter to her daughter with a frown and the remark:
"It's just like him."

But Ida seemed much pained by its contents, and after a moment sprang up, saying: "Cousin Ik, may I speak with you?"

When they were alone she continued: "See what father has written. He must come to-night or I'll go to him. Can't I send him a telegram?"

"Yes, Coz, and I'll take it over to the depot at once."

"Ah, Ik, you are doing me a greater kindness than you know. But it's a long drive."

"The longer the better. Will you go with me?"

"I would had I not promised my old friends I visited yesterday I'd come again to-day. They are doing me good. I'll tell you about it some time," and she wrote the following telegram to her father:

"Come to Lake House to-day. Very important."

"I wish Miss Burton would go with you," she said looking up as the thought occurred to her. "Shall I ask her?"

Stanton's wistful face proved how greatly he would enjoy such an arrangement, but after a moment he said decisively: "No. It would pain her to decline, but she would."

"You are very considerate of her."

"She is sorry for me, Ida. I can see that. She has never exulted a moment in her power over me. My love is only another burden to her sad life. I can't help it, but I can make it as light as possible."

Tears came into Ida's eyes and she faltered: "Ik, I understand you."

A little later they both drove off their different ways.

In spite of everything, Ida found that her heart would grow light and gland as she pursued her way along the quiet country road, now in the shade where the trees crowded up on the eastern side, and again in the sunlight between wide stubble fields in which the quails were whistling mellowly to each other.

Van Berg watched her coming with a heart that beat a little quickly for so cool and philosophical an investigator, and was glad that her quiet old horse resumed a slow walk at the first suggestion of the hill on which he had posted himself.

Ida leaned back in the phaeton with the abandon of those who think themselves alone, and sang a snatch from an old English hymn that Van Berg remembered as one his mother had crooned over him when a child. This melody, doubly sacred to him from its associations, would have grated harshly on his ear if it had been sung by Ida Mayhew a week before; but, strange to say, the girlish voice that floated up to him was all the sweeter for thus blending itself with some of his dearest memories.

When the ascent was half made the artist sprang down from his rocky perch, and horse and maiden were so startled that they both stopped instantly.

"Do not be alarmed," said Van Berg, laughing; "I'm not a very vicious tramp, and am armed with nothing worse than a sketch-book. If I could only induce you to be an hour in coming up this hill I'd put you and the phaeton in it. I wish it were possible to put the song in, too. Why, Miss Mayhew! Am I an ogre, that I frighten you so?"

"I was not expecting to see you," she faltered, deeply vexed that her cheeks would crimson and her hand that held the reins tremble so plainly. "You naturally think I have a very guilty conscience to be so frightened," she added after a second, and regaining a little self-control.

"That quaint old hymn tune did not suggest a guilty conscience," he said kindly.

"I think I must have heard it at church," she replied. "It's been running in my head all the morning." (He now remembered with sudden pity that no memories of sacred words and song could follow her from her home and childhood.) "But I suppose you think it is strange I can sing at all, Mr. Van Berg," she continued gravely. "You must think me very superficial that I do not appear to realize more a crime that makes it exceedingly kind of you even to speak to me, since you know about it. But I have realized the wickedness of that act more bitterly than you can ever know."

"Miss Mayhew, I admit that I can't understand you at all. You have become a greater mystery to me than ever. You see, I imitate your truthfulness."

"There is no necessity of solving the problem," she said in a low tone, and averting her face.

"Do you mean," he asked, flushing slightly, "that my interest is obtrusive and not agreeable to you?"

"If inspired by curiosity—yes," and she looked him steadily in the face.

"But if inspired by a genuine and earnest wish to be your friend and to atone for the unpardonable injustice which came about from my not understanding you?"

"If I believed that," she said, with something like a smile, "I'd take you with me this morning and reveal all the mystery there is about my poor little self in one brief hour."

"How can I prove it?" he asked eagerly.

"Say it," she answered simply.

"I do say it's true, on my honor," he replied, giving her his hand.

"You may come, then, on one other condition. I would like you to draw for me a young pear-tree, and an old gentleman sitting under it."

"I will agree to any conditions," he said, springing in by her side. "Is it the tree that bore the pear you gave me? I hope you don't think I was capable of eating that pear."

"Did you throw it away?" she asked, with a shy glance.

"Miss Mayhew, I've something I wish you to see," and he took out his note-book and showed her the rose-bud he had tossed away. "Do you recognize that?"

In spite of herself the blood rushed tumultuously into her face.

"I thought that was trampled into dust long ago," she said in a low tone.

"I shall never forget your words as you left me that evening, Miss
Mayhew. It was the severest and most deserved rebuke I ever had.
I picked up the bud immediately, I assure you."

"I thought you left it there," she said, in a still lower tone, and then added hastily: "But I have no doubt you acted from a sense of duty."

"I can't say that I did," he answered, dryly.

"Will you please give it to me?"

"Not unless you compel me to," and he closed the book and returned it to an inside breast-pocket. "I would like to carry it as a talisman against Phariseeism, the most hateful of vices."

"Oh, very well," and she turned away her face again.

"But please tell me about this pear-tree," he resumed.

"It won't seem to you as it did to me," she replied, with an embarrassed air, "and I'm sorry I spoke of it, but now that I have I may as well go on. To explain I must go back a little. Mr. Van Berg, I'm taking you to see the old gentleman who saved me from—from—-" Her face was pale enough now.

"My dear Miss Mayhew, don't pain yourself by referring to that."

"I must," she said slowly. "By some strange fate you have seen me at my worst, and since you say you care, you shall know the rest. It may relieve your mind of a fear that I've seen in your face since. I didn't think I'll ever be so wicked and desperate again, and I wish you to know my reasons for thinking so. Well, on that dreadful night the party I was with went into a prayer-meeting, more by the way of frolic than anything else. I did not wish to go in, but, strange as it may seem to you, I was afraid to walk home, and so had to follow my company. Good old Mr. Eltinge spoke to us. He said he knew from his own long experience that there was a Divine Friend who was able and willing to cure every earthly trouble, and he spoke so simply and kindly that he caught my attention and revived my hope. I felt when I entered that place I hadn't a friend in the world or out of it. I was just blind and desperate with shame and discouragement, and—and—but perhaps you have read the letter I gave you?"

"Miss Mayhew, every word of it is burned into my memory. I scarcely moved after reading it till the morning dawned, and then I went out and walked for hours before I could compose myself and dared to meet any one. As I told you then, so I say again, I had a greater escape than you had."

"I'm very, very sorry," she replied, in a tone of deep regret.

"I too am very, very sorry, but it is for you."

She looked up quickly, and saw that his eyes were full of tears.

"I'm not ashamed of them in this instance, Miss Mayhew," he said, dashing them away.

She looked at him wonderingly, and then murmured: "Oh, thank God it has all turned out as it has." After a moment she added: "I've misjudged you also, Mr. Van Berg."

"How? Please tell me, for I feel I have more cause to be disgusted with myself than you ever had."

"Well—how shall I say what I mean? I thought you had more mind than heart."

"It appears to me I've displayed a lamentable lack of both. I must have seemed to you like an animated interrogation point."

"I soon learned you were very greatly my superior," she said simply.

"Miss Mayhew, spare me," he replied quickly, with a deprecatory gesture. "The story you were telling interests me more deeply than you will believe, and I think we shall be better acquainted before the day is over."

"Well, the rest of my story is more easily told than understood, and perhaps your man's reason may not find it very satisfactory. You know the old superstition that the sing of the cross puts to flight the Evil One. I don't believe that, but I believe that the One who suffered on the cross puts him to flight. Mr. Eltinge's simple, downright assertion that Jesus could remedy every earthly trouble—that he would be a patient, helpful Friend—broke the evil spell by which despair had blinded me, and I resolved to try and live if I could. After the old gentleman came out of the church I asked him to let me visit him, and he has been very, very kind. I told him everything. The first day he saw I was greatly discouraged, and told me the history of a young pear-tree against which he was leaning, and which was full of beautiful fruit. He said that on a stormy night it was broken by the wind, and trampled upon by some stray cattle, and he scarcely thought it could live, for it was prostrate on the ground, but he lifted it, and took care of it, and gave nature a chance to restore it. You would think nature was like a kind of mother, to hear him talk. Then he reasoned that Jesus, the Author of nature, would do for me what nature had done for the wounded tree, but that I must not expect too much at first—that I must be receptive and willing to grow patiently as the tree had done, in a new and better life. Thus the tree has become to me an emblem of hope, and I trust a prophecy of my future, although I do not expect ever to reach anything like the perfection suggested by the pear-tree and its delicious fruit. The facts that have impressed me most are that it was bruised, prostrate, and ready to die, and now it is alive and useful. Old Mr. Eltinge loves it, and likes to lean against it, as you will see."

"The fact that has impressed me most in this allegory," groaned
Van Berg, "is that I was the brute that trampled on you."

"You are too severe on yourself," she said earnestly. "I shall have to take your part."

"Please do. I throw myself wholly on your mercy."

"I believe Shakespeare was right," she said, with a shy laugh and averted face. "Mercy is always twice bless'd. But I have not told you all, Mr. Van Berg. Yesterday was the most memorable day of my life. On Thursday Mr. Eltinge saw I needed encouragement; yesterday he saw that I had not realized the crime I had almost committed, and that I was stopping short of him who alone could change my whole nature. Indeed, I think he saw that I was even inclined to become well pleased with myself, and content with my prospects of winning back the esteem of others. He was faithful with me as well as kind. By an illustration, which you will pardon me for not repeating, he made it clear to me as the light that in the intent of my heart I had been guilty of murder. Mr. Van Berg, may you never know the agony and remorse that I suffered for the few moments I saw my sin somewhat as it must appear to God, and to good men like Mr. Eltinge. I was overwhelmed. It seemed as if my crime would crush me. I don't think I could have lived if the sense of terror and despair had lasted. But dear old Mr. Eltinge stood by me in that terrible moment. He put his hand on my head as a father might have done, and in tones that seemed like a voice from heaven, said: 'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.' I felt that I could not bear my sin an instant longer; it was like a mountain of lead, and with a desperate impulse to escape, I looked to Christ—I just fled to him, as it were, and it was the same as if he had opened his arms and received me. From that moment I have felt safe, and almost happy. I can't explain all this to you, I only tell you what happened. It doesn't seem like superstition or excited imagination, as I've heard some characterize these things. It was all too real: Mr. Van Berg, the simple truth is—I've found a Friend, who is pledged to take care of me. I KNOW IT. I am reading the story of his life, under Mr. Eltinge's guidance, and that is why I come here. Now you know all the mystery there is about the faulty girl in whom circumstances have given you a passing interest. Since you knew so much that was against me, perhaps you will not think it strange that I was willing you should learn what is now in my favor. It is simply this—I've found a Divine Friend who will help me live a better life."

They had now reached Mr. Eltinge's gate, and Van Berg stepped out to open it. But before doing so, he turned to his companion, and with eyes moist with feeling, said earnestly:

"Miss Mayhew, circumstances might have given me but a passing interest in you, but YOU have won an abiding interest. You have been generous enough to forgive me, and now you will have to repel me resolutely, to prevent my being your friend. Indeed I shall be one in heart hereafter, even though you may not permit me to enjoy your society, for you may very naturally wish to shun one who cannot fail to remind you of so much that is painful. As for your story, it is a revelation to me. I may never possess your happy faith, but I will respect it;" and although he turned hastily away she could not fail to see that he was deeply moved.

Mr. Eltinge received the young man with some surprise, and did not seem to regard his presence as altogether welcome. The artist thought to disarm the old gentleman by a decided manifestation of frankness and courtesy:

"I feel that in a certain sense I am an intruder in your beautiful garden to-day. Miss Mayhew met me on the road, and I fear I must own that I had the bad grace almost the same as to invite myself hither. At least she saw that I was exceedingly anxious to come."

"Do you know Miss Mayhew's motive in coming hither?" asked Mr.
Eltinge, gravely.

"I do, and I respect it."

"You take safe ground there, sir," said Mr. Eltinge, with increasing dignity. "Christianity is at least respectable. But do you believe it to be absolutely true and binding on the conscience?"

The artist was silent.

"Mr. Van Berg," resumed the old gentleman, with a gravity that tended even towards sternness, "I would not fail in any act of courtesy towards you, especially her at my own home; but justice, mercy, and truth are above all other considerations. Both you and I know this child's history sufficiently well to be aware that it is a dangerous thing to exert an influence at random on human lives. You say you know her motive in coming hither. Let me state the truth very plainly: she has turned her face heavenward; she is taking her first uncertain steps as a pilgrim towards the better home. In justice to you and in mercy to you both let me quote the words of him before whom we all shall stand;" and placing his hand on Ida's shoulder he repeated with the aspect of one of God's ancient prophets those solemn words that too many dare to ignore: "'Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.' Mr. Van Berg, in memory of the past, beware lest consciously or even unconsciously, through your indifference to her faith, you lay a straw in this child's way. The weak and the helpless are very near to the heart of God, and the most dangerous act a man ever commits is when he causes one of these little ones to offend."

Ida trembled beneath her friend's hand and wished she had not permitted the artist to come, but the young man's sincerity and good-breeding enabled him to pass the ordeal. Removing his hat, he replied to Mr. Eltinge with a fine blending of dignity and humility:

"I honor you, sir," he said, "for your faithfulness to the one who has come to you for counsel and in a certain sense for protection; and I condemn myself with bitterness that you will never understand, that I wronged her in my thoughts and wounded her by any manner. I am eager to make any and every atonement in my power. No language can express my gladness that she heard and heeded your words. Pardon me, sir, when I say I am not indifferent to her faith. It is, indeed, a mystery to me, but a noble mystery which I revere from the fruits that I have already witnessed. In my unpardonable stupidity and prejudice—in a Pharisaic pride—I have caused Miss Mayhew to offend. She has generously forgiven me. Myself I shall never forgive. If she will honor me with her friendship hereafter, I pledge you my word that no act of mine, so far as I can help it, shall ever cause you anxiety for one in whom you have so strong and natural an interest."

Mr. Eltinge's manner changed decidedly, and when Van Berg concluded he extended his hand and said cordially:

"After such manly, straightforward words I can give you the right hand of respect and confidence, if not of fellowship. To tell you the truth, sir, I was inclined to believe that my little friend here had a better opinion of you than you deserved, but now I can welcome you instead of scolding her for bringing you."

At the reference to herself Ida, seemingly, had an impulse to pluck a flower that was blooming at a little distance. The moment he was unobserved Van Berg seized the old gentleman's hand and said, earnestly, while tears sprang to his eyes:

"God bless you for the words you spoke to that poor child. I owe you more than she does. You have saved me from a life that I would dread more than death," and then he, too, turned away hastily and pretended to be very busy in finding the materials for his sketch.

Ida returned shyly, and it would seem that some of the color of her flower had found its way into her cheeks.

"Mr. Eltinge," she said, hesitatingly, "I don't believe I can make you understand how much I would like a picture of this pear-tree and yourself sitting under it as I have seen you for the past two days. I must admit that the wish to have such a sketch was one of the motives that led me to bring Mr. Van Berg." Then she added, with deepening color still, "my conscience troubles me when I hear Mr. Van Berg condemn himself so harshly. I have learned that I misjudged him as truly as he did me, and I have since realized how sadly both facts and appearances were against me."

"Well, Miss Ida," said the old gentleman, musingly, "I am inclined to think there has been more of misunderstanding than of intentional and deliberate harshness. My long life has taught me that it is astonishing how blind we often are to the thoughts and feelings of others. But I warn everybody to be careful how they visit this old garden, for it's a wonderful place for bringing out the truth. Nature is in the ascendant here," and he looked keenly and humorously at the artist, who remained, however, unconscious of his scrutiny, for his eyes were following Ida. She had suddenly turned her back upon them both again, and was soon bending over the little brook whose murmur he faintly heard.

"These allusions to the past are all painful to her," he thought, "and she refers to them only because, as she says, her conscience compels her to. It must be my task to make her forget the past in the present and future."

"Mr. Van Berg," she said, returning, "you have visited the Jordan I believe, but I doubt whether its waters did you more good than that little brook over there does me. That's right," she added, looking over his shoulder at the outlines he was rapidly tracing; "I'm glad you are losing no time."

"I remember the condition on which you allowed me to come," he replied, looking up with a smile into her face, "and I've already learned, as Mr. Eltinge suggests, that nothing will do in this garden but downright honesty." Something in her face caused his eyes to linger, and he added hastily: "You're right about the Jordan. The brook seems much more potent, for apparently it has washed your trouble all away, but has left—well you might think it flattery if I should tell you all I see. this garden seems to contain the elixir of life for you, Miss Ida. My heart was aching to see how pale you were becoming, but here—-"

"Mr. Van Berg," said Ida, abruptly, "will you pardon a suggestion?"

He looked up at her again a little wonderingly and bowed.

"There has been a sort of necessity," she resumed, "that my faulty self should be the theme of our conversation to-day, but all the mystery in which you imagined me enveloped must have vanished since you came here. I now must ask that we dwell hereafter on more agreeable subjects than Ida Mayhew."

"I must bring this tendency to personal allusions to an end at once," she thought, "or else I shall betray myself to my bitter mortification."

He looked up with a deprecating smile, "I am at your mercy," he replied, "and as I said before I will submit to any conditions."

"This is an easy one," said Ida, with emphasis, and then she took up the Bible and began reading to Mr. Eltinge, who from his seat under the pear-tree had been watching them with a pleased and placid interest on his serene old face. Their young life appeared beautiful now, and full of hope and promise, but he did not envy it. The prospect before him was better than the best that earth could offer.

Van Berg never forgot the hour that followed. His pencil was busy but his thoughts were busier. He felt his artist life and power kindling within him in a way that was exhilarating and grand. While his themes were simple he felt that they were noble and beautiful in the highest degree. The tree—a pretty object in itself—had been endowed with a human interest and suggested a divine philosophy. Mr. Eltinge, who sat at its foot, became to him one of the world's chief heroes—a man who had met and vanquished evil for almost a century. His white hair and silver beard were a halo of glory around the quiet face that was turned in kindly sympathy towards his companion, and Van Berg did his best to bring out the noble profile.

But the maiden herself—why did his eyes turn so often to her, and why did he, unasked, introduce her into the sketch with a care and lingering delicacy of touch that made even her pencilled image seem a living girl? When not affected or rendered conventional by society, her voice was singularly girlish and natural, and there would often be a tone in a plaintive and minor key that vibrated like a low, sweet chord in his heart rather than in his ears. It must be admitted that he gave little heed to the sacred words she read; but the flexible music of her voice, mingled with the murmur of the brook, the rustle of the leaves and the occasional song of a bird, all combined to form the sweetest symphony he had ever heard.

As an artist he exulted. His hand had not lost its cunning, and his ruling passion, which the strange experiences of the past few weeks had held in abeyance, was reasserting itself with a fuller, richer power than he had known before. That WAS Ida Mayhew's face that was growing beautiful and full of her new and better life under his appreciative and skilful touch, and the consciousness of success in the kind of effort in which success meant to him so much, filled him with a strong enthusiasm.

Once or twice Ida glanced shyly at him, and his appearance did not tend to fix her thoughts wholly on the sacred text.

At last Mr. Eltinge said: "That will do for to-day. I think, under the circumstances, you have given most praiseworthy attention to what you have read, and to what little I could say in the way of explanation. Now for the picture, and I confess I'm as eager as a child to see it;" and they came and looked over Van Berg's shoulder.

Almost instantly Ida clapped her hands, exclaiming with delight: "The tree is perfect, and oh, Mr. Eltinge, I shall always have you now, with your dear kind face turned towards me as I have seen it to-day!" Suddenly her manner changed, and in a tone full of disappointment she added, "Oh, Mr. Van Berg, how could you spoil my picture? You have put me in it."

"Certainly," he replied demurely, "you were a part of the picture."

"Not a necessary part. I did not ask you to do that," she answered, in a way that proved her feelings were hurt.

"I am willing to do more than you ask, and if you insist on it I will efface your image, although I should much regret to do so."

"I protest against that," cried Mr. Eltinge. "So far from spoiling the picture, your being there makes it invaluable to me. I'm going to tax Mr. Van Berg's generosity, and ask for this in the hope that he will make another drawing of the old man and the tree only, for you."

"Would you like to have it so very much?" said Ida, much pleased with this arrangement.

"Yes, my dear, very much indeed, and I'll place it near my favorite chimney corner, where I can see you all winter. Mr. Van Berg, I congratulate you; I'm not much of a judge of art, but this is my little friend here, true to life. You have been very happy in catching the expression which I am learning to know so well."

"Your words have a fuller meaning than you think," replied the artist, heartily. "I have indeed been very happy in my work. I never enjoyed a morning more in my life."

"But I'm to go home without any picture," said Ida, trying to hide her pleasure by assumed reproachfulness.

"There is no picture yet, for any one," he answered, "this is only a sketch from which I shall try to make two pictures that will suggest a scene particularly attractive to one of my calling, to say the least."

As he placed the sketch in his book, the work he had been engaged on that morning when Ida met him by the roadside, dropped out, and she saw herself leaning on the baluster rail of the staircase, with her hand half extended as a token of forgiveness and reconciliation. Her cheeks flushed instantly, but she was able to remark quietly:

"I suppose that is the way you artists keep a memorandum of current events."

He replied gravely, but with some answering color also: "Yes, Miss
Mayhew, when the current is deep and strong."

Van Berg felt himself happy in securing from Mr. Eltinge an invitation to come again. As they were riding home, Ida remarked, shyly:

"I did not know you could draw so well."

"Nor did I either before. That old garden is enchanted ground."

"Yes," said Ida, "poor Eve was driven out of the Garden of Eden, but I feel as if I had found my way into it. I only wish I could stay there," and her sigh was long and deep.

"Does the world outside seem very full of thorns and thistles?" he asked, kindly.

After a moment she replied, simply and briefly, "Yes."

He looked at her sympathetically for a moment, and then said earnestly:

"Miss Ida, pardon me if I venture a prediction. Wherever you dwell, hereafter, all that is good and beautiful in life and character which the garden typifies will begin to take the place of thorns and thistles."

"I hope so," she faltered, "but that involves bleeding hands, Mr. Van Berg. I am not cast in heroic mould. I am weak and wavering, and as a proof I am dwelling on the very subject that I had forbidden. I trust that you will be too manly to take advantage of my weakness henceforth and will try to help me forget myself."

"That may be a harder task than you think, but I will attempt whatever you ask," and from her pleased and interested expression it would seem that during the next half hour he succeeded remarkably well. Suddenly, as if a happy thought had struck him, he said a little abruptly:

"I foresee that you and Miss Burton are destined to become great friends. You have not yet learned what a lovely character she possesses and how broad and deep are her sympathies."

Ida's silence caused him to turn and look at her, and he saw that the light and color had faded from her face, but she said, emphatically:

"Miss Burton is even more admirable than you think her to be, if that were possible."

"I am pleased to hear one lady speak so strongly and generously of another. It is not usual. I shall do my utmost to make you better acquainted with each other, and in this pleasant task am sure I shall render you a very great service."

"Mr. Van Berg, I beg you will not," she exclaimed, hastily, and he saw with surprise that she appeared painfully embarrassed.

"Pardon me, Miss Mayhew," he said; "I did not mean to be officious."

Ida saw no way of extricating herself save by promptly changing the subject, and this she did; but she could not fail to observe that her companion was hurt by her apparent unfriendliness towards one on whom he believed he had bestowed the best a man could give. The remainder of the drive was not enjoyed by either of them as the earlier part had been, and something like constraint tinged the manner and words of both.

As they drove up to the hotel Stanton gave a low whistle of surprise, but was in no mood for his old-time banter. QjHzO+Iqc/+/5RKczLrZECFZL8106yFWKttKOZl31vNQRMEt/HrhcKpEhTZjlIoz