Miss Burton repeated her question. But in the meantime it was evident a severe conflict was going on in Ida Mayhew's mind. How could she obey Mr. Eltinge's injunction to be honest and true, if she let this false impression concerning her behavior in the stage remain? How could she hope to win a particle of respect from Van Berg if she received again this undeserved praise? How could she look her kind old friend in the face if she continued silent? She felt she must either speak or take the pear leaves out of her hair. It was hard, bitter hard to speak then and there before them all, but her indecision soon gave place to the resolve to lay at once what Mr. Eltinge had called the corner-stone of character. "Miss Burton," she said abruptly, as Stanton was trying to collect his wits so as to make a suitable reply. They all looked at her involuntarily. Her face was pale now, and had the white, resolute aspect often seen in those about to face great danger. "Miss Burton, I am sorry to say you have a false impression of my conduct in the stage. So far from showing presence of mind and courage on that occasion, I was terror-stricken and, I believe, hysterical. With all my faults, I shall at LEAST try to tell the truth hereafter." "By Jupiter!" cried the impulsive Stanton, "that's the pluckiest thing I ever saw a woman do, or man either. Ida, from this day I'm proud of you, though you have little occasion to be so of me." The poor girl had looked steadily at Miss Burton while speaking, but the moment the ordeal was over her lip quivered like that of a child, and she hastily left the table. She had scarcely mounted half the stairs that led to her room before Van Berg was at her side. "Miss Mayhew," he said eagerly, "I did not sleep last night, nor can I to-night until assured of your forgiveness. Myself I can never forgive." Her heart was full and her nerves overstrained already. She could not speak, but she bowed her head on the rail of the balustrade, hiding her face against her arm, and strove hard to check the rising sobs. "Miss Mayhew," he continued, in low, pleading tones, "in all my life I never condemned myself so bitterly as I have for my treatment of you. I can only appeal to your generosity. I NEED your forgiveness," and he waited for her answer. But she could not answer. It seemed as if she could not maintain even her partial self-control a moment longer. Her heart forgave him, however, and she wished him to know it, so without lifting her head she held out her hand in the place of the words she could not trust herself to utter. He seized it eagerly, and it so trembled and throbbed in his grasp that it made him think of a wounded bird that he once had captured.