As she entered the large hall, Van Berg, who had been on the watch, rose to greet her, but she merely bowed politely and distantly, and passed at once into the dining room. After a hasty breakfast she returned to her room by a side passage, and prepared for her expedition, paying no heed to her mother's expostulations. Van Berg was on the piazza when she came down, but she passed him swiftly, giving him no time to speak to her, and springing into the phaeton, drove away. His anxiety was so deep that he took pains to note the road she took, and then waited impatiently for her return. After driving several miles, and making a few inquiries by the way, Ida found herself approaching an old-fashioned house secluded among the hills. It was on a shady side road, into which but few eddies from the turbulent current of worldly life found their way. The gate stood hospitably open, and she drove in under the shade of an enormous silver poplar, whose leaves fluttered in the breathless summer air, as if each one possessed a separate life of its own. As she drew near to the house she saw old Mr. Eltinge coming from his garden to greet her. "I had about given you up," he said, "and so you are doubly welcome. Old people are like children, and don't bear disappointments very well." "Did you really want to see me very much?" Ida asked, as he assisted her to alight. "Yes, my child," he replied, gravely, holding her hand in a strong, warm grasp. "I felt, from your manner last evening, you were sincere. You come on an errand that is most pleasing to my Master, and I welcome you in his name as well as my own." "Perhaps if you knew all you would not welcome me," she said in a low tone, turning away. "Only for one cause could I withdraw my welcome," he said, still more gravely. "What is that?" she asked in a lower tone, not daring to look at him. "If you are not sincere," he replied, looking at her keenly. Giving him her hand again, and looking up into his face, she said, earnestly: "Mr. Eltinge, I am sincere. I could not be otherwise with you after your words last night. I come to you in great trouble, with a burdened heart and conscience, and I shall tell you everything, and then you must advise me, for I have no other friend to whom I can go." "Oh, yes, you have, my child," said the old man, cheerily. "The One they called the 'Friend of sinners' is here to-day to welcome you, and is more ready to receive and advise you than I am. I'm not going to do anything for you but lead you to him who said, 'Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden;' and, 'Whosoever cometh I will in nowise cast out.'" "How much you make those words mean, as you speak them," faltered Ida. "You almost lead me to feel that not far away there is some one, good and tender-hearted, who will take me by the hand with reassuring kindness, as you have."