"What do you think of this pear-tree against which I'm leaning?" he asked. "You remember I said it owed me a good turn, and perhaps I can get my best fruit from it to-day." "I think it is a pretty tree," said Ida, wonderingly; "and now I notice that there are some fine pears on it." "Yes, and they are about ripe. Let us see if we can't reverse the old story with which the Bible commences. The man shall tempt the woman this time, and this shall be a tree of the knowledge of good, not of evil. Poor child, you know enough about that already;" and the old gentleman climbed up on his chair, and with his cane loosened a large yellow pear with a crimson blush on its sunny side. "Take my hat and catch it," he had said to Ida; and she did so. "Now, I've made you an accomplice already, and so you may as well eat the pear while I tell you a bit of history concerning this tree. It may help me to suggest some very encouraging truths." But Ida held her pear and looked wistfully at the speaker. Her heart was still too sore to enter into the half-playful manner by which he sought to give a less gloomy cast to her thoughts. "Some years ago," said Mr. Eltinge, resuming his seat, "we had a night of darkness and violent storm like that through which you, poor child, have just passed. The garden fence was blown down, and some stray cattle got in and made sad havoc. This pear-tree was a little thing then, and when I came out in the morning it was in a bad plight, I can tell you. The wind had snapped off the top, and it lay withering on the ground. Worse than this, one of the cattle had stepped on it, bruising it severely, and half breaking it off near the root. I don't know which of the young men you have named this unruly beast typifies--both of 'em, I'm inclined to think." Here Ida shook her head in protest against Van Berg being classed with Sibley, and at the same time could not forbear the glimmer of a smile at the old man's homely imagery. "Well, according to my creed," continued Mr. Eltinge, "'while there's life there's hope,' so I lifted up the poor, prostrate little tree, and tied it to a stout stake. Then I got grafting wax and covered the bruises and broken places, and finally tied all up as carefully as I used to my boys' fingers when the cut them, sixty odd years ago. And now mark, my child; I had done all that I could do. I couldn't make the wounds heal or even a new twig start; and yet here is a stately young tree beginning to bear delicious fruit. Nature took my sorry-looking little case in hand, and slowly at first, but by and by with increased vigor and rapidity, she developed what you see. I have an affection for this tree, and like to lean against it, and sometimes I half fancy it likes to have me." "I should think it ought to," said Ida, heartily, with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.