Mr. Mayhew attended church with his family that morning—a thing that he had not done for years—and in the afternoon Ida took him to see her spiritual birthplace, and to call on her spiritual father. The welcome that old Mr. Eltinge gave, and the words he spoke, did much towards establishing in the man who had been so disheartened, hope that a new and better future was opening before him.

When about to part he put his left arm around his daughter, and giving his hand to Mr. Eltinge, said, with a voice broken by his feelings:

"I am bewildered yet. I can't understand my happiness. Yesterday I was perishing in a boundless desert. To-day the desert has vanished, and I'm in this sweet old garden. There are no flowers or fruits in it, however, that can compare with the love and truth I now see in this child's face. I won't speak of the service you have rendered us both. It's beyond all words."

It was indeed greater than he knew, for Id had concluded never to speak again of her terrible secret. God had forgiven her, and nothing was to be gained by any reference to a subject that had become inexpressibly painful. "Remember," said the staunch and faithful old man as they were about to drive away, "nothing good lasts unless built up from the Author of all good. Unless you act on this truth you'll find yourself in the desert again, and all you are now enjoying will seem like a mirage."

Poor Mr. Mayhew could not endure to lose a moment of his daughter's society, for the long thirst of years was to be slaked. They took a round-about way home, and the summer evening deepened into twilight and dusk before they approached the hotel.

"See, father, there is the new moon, and it hangs over your right shoulder," cried Ida, gleefully.

"It's over your right shoulder, too, and that thought pleases me better still. I wish I could make you very happy. Tell me what I can do for you."

"Take me to New York with you to-morrow," said Ida, promptly.

"Now you are trying to make a martyr of yourself for me. You forget how hot and dusty the city is in August."

"I'm going with you," she said decisively, "unless you say no."

"I'm going to spend part of the time with you until your vacation begins next month, and then we'll explore every nook and corner of this region."

"There Ida, say no more to-day. My cup is overflowing now, and the fear is already growing that such happiness won't last—can't last in a world like ours."

"Father," said Ida, gently, "I've found a Friend that has promised me more than present happiness. He has promised me eternal life. He is pledged to make all seemingly evil result in my final good. How it can be I don't see at all, but I'm trying to take him at his word. You must not worry if I'm not always in good spirits. I suppose every one in the world has a burden to carry, but I don't think it can crush us if our Saviour helps us carry it. My faith is very simple, you see; I feel I'm like one of those little children he took in his arms and blessed, and I'm sure his blessing is not an empty form. It has made me love and trust him, and that's all the religion I have or know anything about. You must not expect great things of me; you must not watch me too closely. Just let me take my own quiet way in life, for I want my life henceforth to be as quiet and unobtrusive as the little brook that runs through Mr. Eltinge's garden, that is often in the shade, you know, as well as in the light, but Mr. Eltinge lets it flow after its own fashion; so you must let me. I'll always try to make a little low, sweet music for you, if not for the world. So please do not commence puzzling your poor tired brain how to make me happy or gay, or want to take me here and there. Just leave me to myself; let me have my own way for awhile at least; and if you can do anything for me I promise to tell you."

Ever since her drive with Van Berg the previous day, there had been a deep undercurrent of thought in Ida's mind, and she had at last concluded that she could scarcely keep her secret with any certainty while under his eyes, and especially those of Miss Burton. She was too direct and positive in her nature, and her love was too strong and absorbing for the cool and indifferent bearing she was trying to maintain. Her eyes, her cheeks, her tones, and even words, might prove traitors at any time and betray her. She longed to be alone, and teh large empty city house seemed the quiet refuge that she needed. At the same time it would give her deep satisfaction to be with her father after hs return from business, and make amends for years of neglect.

He looked at her wistfully, feeling, in a vague way, that he did not understand her yet. There was a minor chord in her voice, and there had been a sadness in her eyes at times which began to suggest to him that he had not learned all the causes that were so marvellously transforming her form her old self. Her mother would question and question. He, on the contrary, would wait patiently till the confidence was given, and so he merely said gently,

"All right, little girl; I'll try to make you happy in your own way."

Van Berg, going out for a walk after tea, again heard the girlish voice singing the quaint hymn tune that had awakened the memories of his childhood the previous day. He instantly concealed himself by the roadside, and in a moment or two Ida and her father drove by. He was able in the dusk to note only that her head rested on her father's shoulder, and her voice was sweet and plaintive as she sang words that he could not hear distinctly, but which were as follows, as far as he could catch them:

I know not the way he is leading me
But I know he is leading me home;
Though lonely the path and dark to me,
It is safe and it wends to my home.
Home of the blest,
Home that is rest
To the weary pilgrim's feet, to the weary pilgrim's heart.

and then her words were lost in the distance.

With an impulse he did not think of resisting he followed them back to the hotel and waited patiently till she and her father came out from supper.

"Miss Mayhew," he said, a little discontentedly, "I have scarcely had a chance to say a word to you to-day, and it seems to me that I have a great deal to say."

She looked at him with some surprise as she replied, "Well, I think
I might at least become a good listener."

"Do you mean a patient one?"

"I never had any patience," she answered, with something like a smile.

"And I was never so possessed by the demon of impatience as I have been this afternoon. There hasn't been a soul around that I cared to talk with, and if you knew how out of conceit I am with my own company, you would feel some commiseration. How I envied you your visit to the garden this afternoon, for I felt sure you took your father thither. May I not go with you again to-morrow, or soon? I wish to make my sketch more accurate before beginning your picture."

She hesitated a moment, and he little know how he was tempting her. Then she replied, so quietly and decisively as to seem almost cold, "Mr. Eltinge, I'm sure, will be very glad to see you, but I shall go to the city with my father in the morning and remain in town all the week." She was puzzled at his unmistakable expression of regret and disappointment, and added, hastily, "Mr. Van Berg, you are taking far too much trouble. I would be more satisfied—I would be delighted with such a sketch as you made to-day, with the omission of myself."

"But if, instead of being trouble, it gave me great pleasure to make the picture with the utmost care?"

"I suppose," she replied, "that you have a high artistic sense that must be satisfied, and that you see imperfections that I cannot."

"You are too severe upon me, Miss Mayhew, but since you have such good reason, I cannot complain. Still, in justice to myself, I must say that satisfying my artistic sense was not my motive."

"I did not mean to be severe—I do not mean what you think," Ida began, very eagerly. Then she checked herself and added, after a moment, with a slight tinge of sadness in her tone, "I fear we are fated to misunderstand each other. Good-night, Mr. Van Berg," and she turned decisively away and joined her father who was talking with Stanton.

The artist was both hurt and perplexed, and he abruptly left the hall and started again on the walk which had been so unexpectedly interrupted. He strode away through the starlight with a swiftness that was scarcely in harmony with the warm, still summer night. Before he was aware of it he was a mile away. Stopping suddenly he muttered:

"I won't be so baffled and puzzled. I will learn to understand this Ida Mayhew before this summer is over. It's ridiculous that I should be so dull and stupid. She says she fears we are 'fated to misunderstand each other.' I defy such a blind stupid fate. I used to have some brains and tact before I came to this place, and I scarcely think I've become an idiot. I am determined to win that girl's friendship, and I intend to follow her career and watch the rare and beautiful development of her character. That one hour in the garden yesterday taught me what an inspiration her exquisite beauty can be in my profession, and surely with the vantage-ground I already possess I ought to have skill enough to win a place among her friends," and he walked back almost as quickly as he had stalked away.

Ida had seen his departure and recognized the fact that she had hurt his feelings. It was strange that so little a thing could depress her so greatly, for she felt that the first real Sabbath she had ever spent and which had been in truth a SUN-day to her thus far, was now ending in shadows darker than the night. "How weak I am," she thought; "I must go away as soon as possible, or else I shall be sorry. The companionship that he can give so easily and frankly when Miss Burton is not at hand to occupy him is impossible for me, and would only end in the betrayal of a secret that I would hide even more anxiously than the crime I could not conceal from him. My duty and my father must be everything hereafter," and she turned resolutely to him, saying:

"Father, take a seat in the parlor while I go and find mother. I want these people to see that you have a family who at least show that they appreciate all the luxuries and comforts you are providing for them."

Mr. Mayhew was more deeply gratified by her words than she could understand, for any recognition of his manhood and rightful position which was quiet and unobtrusive, was balm and healing to his wounded self-respect. Hitherto he had believed correctly that his family wished to keep him out of sight, and at no time before had he realized the change that had taken place in Ida more keenly than when she made this simple and natural proposition. His grateful smile as he complied with her request did her good, but she soon discovered that in her mother she had a very difficult subject to manage. She found that lady in her room wearing a gloomy and injured expression.

"You have condescended at last to come and see whether I was alive,
I see," she said, as Ida entered the room.

Her daughter went directly to her and kissing her replied, "We haven't intended to leave you so long or to neglect you in the least, and I'll explain."

"Oh, no need of explaining. Excuses always make matters worse.
Here is the fact—I've been left all the afternoon to myself."

"Have you noticed no other fact to-day, mother?" asked Ida, gravely.

"Yes, I've noticed that you and your father have been so wrapped up in each other that I'm nobody, and might as well be Mrs. John Smith as Mrs. Mayhew."

"Pardon me, mother, you are exaggerating," said Ida, firmly. "Father was very polite to you at breakfast and dinner, and he went to church with you this morning, and I can scarcely remember when he has done this before. I am chiefly to blame for keeping him away so long this afternoon, for I wanted him to see and talk with my friend Mr. Eltinge, who has done me so much good. I thought he might help father too, and I truly believe he has. I repeat to you again, in all sincerity and love, that we have not intended to neglect you, and father now wishes you to come down and join him in the parlor, so that we can, as a family, at last appear as we ought before the world. In the name of all that is sacred, encourage dear father now that he is trying to be what we have so often wished."

But Mrs. Mayhew's pets were like spells of bad weather and would run their course. She only looked more gloomy and injured than ever as she replied:

"It's all very well to talk. Mr. Mayhew must be encouraged and coaxed to do what any man ought to do. I might have enjoyed a ride this evening as well as your father."

"You said it was too warm to go out after dinner."

"Well, you might have waited till it wasn't too warm."

A sudden scarlet burned in Ida's cheeks, and there came an ominous sparkle in her eyes. "Mother," she said so abruptly and sternly that the lady looked up wonderingly, and encountered an expression in her daughter's face that awakened an undefined fear. In tones that were low, indignant, and authoritative Ida continued:

"I request—I demand that you cease this nonsense at once. As a Christian woman you ought to be on your knees thanking God that your husband is not lying intoxicated on that sofa, as he was last Sunday at this time. You ought to be thanking God that he is becoming his former self, and winning respect by acting like a true gentleman. It was our unutterable folly that was destroying him, and I say this folly must and shall cease. I will not permit my father's sensitive nature to be wounded as it has been. You shall not spoil this first bright day he has had after so many years. If you care for him why don't you try to win his affection? and whoever heard of a heart being won by whining and fault-finding? But of this be sure, you shall not spoil this day. I charge you as a wife and a lady to cease this childish petulance, and come down at once."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Mayhew, rising mechanically, "if you are going to make a scene—-"

"I am going to prevent scenes," said Ida, with all her old time imperiousness. "I insist that we appear in the future like a quiet, well-bred family, and I warn you that I will permit my father to be trifled with no longer. He SHALL have a chance. Wait, let me help you make a more becoming toilet for Sunday evening."

Ida was very strongly aroused, and the superior nature mastered the weaker. Mrs. Mayhew became as wax in her hands, although she made many natural and irritable protests against her daughter speaking to her as she had done. Ida paid no heed to her mother's words, and after giving a few finishing touches to her dress relieved her sternness by a judicious compliment, "I wish you to take the seat father is reserving for you," she said, "and appear the charming lady that you know how to be so well;" and without further parley they went down together.

Once in the social eye it would be Mrs. Mayhew's strongest impulse to make a good impression, and she behaved beautifully. Something in Ida's manner puzzled her father, but she smiled so reassuringly that he gave himself up to the quiet enjoyment of the situation that was so natural and yet so novel. He listened with a pleased expression to the music, and noted, with deep satisfaction, the friendly and respectful bearing of those near, towards both his wife and himself; but he exulted in the evident admiration that his daughter excited. The people at the Lake House had already discovered that there was a decided change for the better in the Mayhew family, and they greeted the improvement with a kindly but well-bred and unobtrusive welcome that was creditable to human nature. Of course there was a great deal of whispered surmise, but nothing offensive to the eye.

Stanton came and asked Ida to join in the singing at the piano, but she shook her head decidedly.

"Who has been hurting your feelings?" he asked, in a low tone.

By a scarcely perceptible gesture, she put her finger on her lips and said quietly, "They are waiting for you, Cousin Ik." Then she added, with a smile, "Somewhere I've heard a proverb expressing surprise that Saul should be among the prophets. I hardly think it will be in good taste for me to appear among them just yet."

"And I once believed her to be a fool," thought Stanton as he returned to his place.

Again, on this Sunday evening, keen eyes were watching her from the dusky piazza, but so far from being wolfish and ravenous, they were full of sympathy and admiration.

As Van Berg approached the parlor windows after his return, he saw Stanton standing by the piano at Jennie Burton's side, and she was looking up to him and speaking in a very friendly manner. He was not conscious of any appropriate pangs of jealousy, and indeed did not miss their absence, but he looked eagerly around for the problem his philosophical mind was so bent on solving.

At first the favorable impression made by the reunited family caught his attention, and he muttered, "There is some more of her magic. But what is the matter with Miss Mayhew herself. Her eyes are burning with a fire that is anything but tender and sacred, and there are moments when her face is almost stern, and again it is full of trouble."

Some one discovered him on the piazza, and there was a general wish expressed that he should sing with Miss Burton a duet that had become a favorite. After this and one or two other pieces, he again sought his place of observation. The color and fire had now wholly faded from Miss Mayhew's face, and she looked pale and sad. Her father turned to her, and said:

"Ida, I fear you don't feel well."

"I'm very tired, and think I had better go to my room."

He rose instantly, and gave her his arm, but on the way she reassured him: "A night's sleep, and the rest I shall have with you in the city are just what I need; so don't worry, for I shall be ready to take the train with you in the morning;" and Mr. Mayhew rejoined his wife, and completed a happier day than he ever expected to see again.

But poor Ida, when left alone, buried her face in her hands and sobbed, "I've wounded HIS feelings, I've given way to my old passionate anger, I've spoken to mother as a daughter never should. What will ever become of faulty Ida Mayhew? The worm-eaten emblem is true of me still."

Then, as if whispered to her by some good angel, the words Mr. Eltinge had spoken recurred to her. "Your Saviour will be as tender and patient with you as a mother with her baby that is learning to walk."

"Oh," she cried, in a low, passionate tone, "that is the kind of a God I need!"

She also remembered the reassuring words that Mr. Eltinge had quoted—"As one whom his mother comforteth so will I comfort you," and the promise was made good to her.

"Stanton," said Van Berg, a little abruptly, before they parted that evening, "I fear, from your cousin's appearance, she was ill when she left the parlor."

"I've given up trying to understand Ida. When she came down with her mother, she looked like an incensed goddess, and when she returned she reminded me of the fading white lily she wore in her hair. I give it up," concluded Stanton, whose language had become a trifle figurative and poetic of late.

"I don't," muttered the artist, after smoking the third consecutive cigar in solitude. HgYdAlkWBdGmbu04JBU4ip/1FjKxAR1X0yJ08XoKZM5ucHMJknso+DuvT6SBK3dd