His bent form became erect and almost steely in its tenseness. He gently but firmly placed her in a chair, and then paced the room rapidly a moment or two, his dark eyes glowing with a strong and kindling excitement. Ida began to regard him with wonder and almost alarm. Suddenly he raised his hand to heaven, and said solemnly: "This shall be no one-sided affair so help me God!" Then opening his valise, he took out a bottle of brandy and thew it, with a crash, into the empty grate. Ida sprang towards him with a glad cry, exclaiming, "O father, now I understand you! Thank God! thank God!" He kissed her tearful, upturned face again and again, as if he found there the very elixir of life. "Ida, my dear little Ida," he said, huskily, "you have saved your father from a drunkard's end--from a drunkard's grave. I was in a drunkard's hell already." Mr. Mayhew requested that supper should be served in his own room, for neither he nor his daughter was in a mood to meet strangers that evening. Ida called her mother, and tried to explain to her why they did not wish to go down, but the poor woman was not able to grasp very much of the truth, and was decidedly mystified by the domestic changes which she had very limited power to appreciate, and in which she had so little part. She was not a coarse woman, but matter of fact, superficial, and worldly to the last degree. Van Berg could scarcely believe his eyes when Mr. Mayhew came down to breakfast with his family Sunday morning. The bondman had become free; the slave of a degrading vice had been transformed into a quiet, dignified gentleman. His form was erect, and while his bearing was singularly modest and retiring, there was nothing of the old cowering, shrinking manner which suggested defeat, loss of self-respect, and hopeless dejection. All who knew him instinctively felt that the prostrate man had risen to his feet, and there was something in his manner that made them believe he would hold his footing among other men hereafter. The artist found himself bowing to the "spiritless wretch" with a politeness that was by no means assumed, and from the natural and almost cordial manner in which Mr. Mayhew returned his salutation, he was very glad to believe that Ida had not told him the deeper and darker secrets of her experience during the past week. "This is her work," he thought, and Ida's radiant face confirmed the impression. She then felt that after her father's words, "You have saved me," she could never be very unhappy again. A hundred times she had murmured, "Oh, how much better God's way out of trouble has been than mine!" Mr. Mayhew had always had peculiar attractions for Miss Burton, and they at once entered into conversation. But as she recognized the marvellous change in him, the pleased wonder of her face grew so apparent, that he replied to it in low tones: