"Commence by living simple and true, my dear. Truthfulness is the corner-stone of the character that men most respect and God will honor. None of us can be perfect, but we can all be honest, and pretend to be no better than we are. Just simply follow your conscience, pray daily for light and guidance, and do the best you can. Live up to the light as you get it, and remember the good Lord will be as patient with you as a mother with her baby that is just learning to walk. Be truthful and sincere as you have been with me to-day, and all will be well." Then he brought a step-ladder, and filled a little basket with pears. "They'll ripen nicely in your drawer," he said, "and I shouldn't wonder if you found 'em kind of nourishing to your soul as well as body, now you know how they grew." With a promise to come on the morrow Ida drove away more cheered and comforted than she had thought it possible ever to be again. But as she approached the hotel piazza, and saw the artist talking with Jennie Burton, she experienced a sinking of heart that taught her how difficult her path must be at best. Van Berg hastened down eagerly to assist her to alight, for her reappearance lifted a terrible load of anxiety from his mind. In spite of herself the color rushed into the cheeks which of late had become so pale, and the hand she gave him trembled as he helped her from the phaeton. "I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you again. I've been oppressed with fear all day," he could not forbear saying, in a low tone. "I suppose you naturally felt that you could not trust me," she replied, averting her face. "I've been spending the day with a friend." "Forgive me," he said eagerly. "I seem fated to wound you, but I wish they might hereafter be the wounds of a friend." She would not trust herself to look up till she became more composed, but could not resist the impulse to say: "Do friends give only wounds?" Van Berg bit his lip and followed her slowly up the steps. "I see from your basket," said Miss Burton, kindly, "that you have been foraging. I hope you had good success." "Yes, I think I've been successful," replied Ida, who was desperately sorry that Miss Burton had intercepted her and must see her burning cheeks. "I have not found roses, as you did, but perhaps these are more in keeping with my prosaic and material nature;" and she lifted the cover and offered the fruit. "You treat me better than I did you," said Miss Burton, smilingly, and ignoring an implied satire which Ida had not intended. "I did not give you any of my roses." Ida shot a side glance at the artist which said to him plainly: "But Mr. Van Berg did," and he flushed deeply. Then she selected a superb pear, and after looking at it keenly a moment, handed it to him with the low words: "I think you will find that no worm has been in that." He took it with evident embarrassment and was about to speak eagerly, but she passed quickly in, and went to her room.