The old gentleman's words came home to her with such a force of personal application that she was deeply moved, and even awed. They seemed like a divine message--nay more, like a restraining hand. "How strange it was," she thought, that she had come to this place!--how strange that a serene old, man, with heaven's peace already on his brow, should have uttered the words best adapted to her desperate need. If he had spoken of duty, obligation, of truth in the abstract, his tones would have been like the sound of a wintry wind. But he had spoken of a Friend, as tender, patient, and helpful as he was powerful. What was far more, he spoke with the strong convincing confidence of personal knowledge. He had tried this Friend through all the vicissitudes of over half a century, and found him true. Could human assurance--could human testimony go farther? Deep in her heart she was conscious that hope was reviving again--that the end had not yet come. The gay young party, touched and subdued, passed out quietly with the others. But Ida lingered. "Who is that old gentleman?" she asked of a lady near her. "That is Mr. Eltinge--Mr. James Eltinge," was the reply. Ida passed slowly towards the door, looking wistfully back at the old man, who stopped to greet cheerily one and another. "No one need be afraid to speak to him," she thought. "His every look and tone show him to be kind and sincere. I'll see him before--before"--she shuddered, and scarcely dared to put her dark purpose in thought in the presence of one who had lived patiently at God's will for nearly a century. She stepped out into the night and watched for his coming. In a moment or two the old gentleman also passed out, and stood waiting for his carriage. Timidly approaching him, she said, "Mr. Eltinge, may I speak with you?" He stepped with her a little aside from the others. "Mr. Eltinge," she continued, in a voice that trembled and was broken by her feeling, "I am one of the young people you spoke to this evening. I'm in trouble--deep trouble. I want such a Friend as you described to-night." He took her hand and said, in a hearty voice, "God bless you, my child. He wants you more than you want him." "May I come and see you to-morrow morning?" asked Ida, hurriedly, for his tones of kindness, for which her heart was famishing, were fast breaking down her self-control. "I'll come and see you," was his prompt and cordial response. "No," she faltered, "let it be as I wish. Please tell me where to find you." As he finished directing her, she stooped down and kissed his hand, and then vanished in the darkness. "Perhaps I'm not yet a cumberer of the ground," murmured the old man, wiping a sudden moisture from his eyes. Chapter XXXIX. Van Berg's Escape. Ida found the party, on whose companionship she had in a measure forced herself, waiting and calling for her. The words of the old gentleman had inspired them with kinder and more considerate feeling.