When about to part he put his left arm around his daughter, and giving his hand to Mr. Eltinge, said, with a voice broken by his feelings: "I am bewildered yet. I can't understand my happiness. Yesterday I was perishing in a boundless desert. To-day the desert has vanished, and I'm in this sweet old garden. There are no flowers or fruits in it, however, that can compare with the love and truth I now see in this child's face. I won't speak of the service you have rendered us both. It's beyond all words." It was indeed greater than he knew, for Id had concluded never to speak again of her terrible secret. God had forgiven her, and nothing was to be gained by any reference to a subject that had become inexpressibly painful. "Remember," said the staunch and faithful old man as they were about to drive away, "nothing good lasts unless built up from the Author of all good. Unless you act on this truth you'll find yourself in the desert again, and all you are now enjoying will seem like a mirage." Poor Mr. Mayhew could not endure to lose a moment of his daughter's society, for the long thirst of years was to be slaked. They took a round-about way home, and the summer evening deepened into twilight and dusk before they approached the hotel. "See, father, there is the new moon, and it hangs over your right shoulder," cried Ida, gleefully. "It's over your right shoulder, too, and that thought pleases me better still. I wish I could make you very happy. Tell me what I can do for you." "Take me to New York with you to-morrow," said Ida, promptly. "Now you are trying to make a martyr of yourself for me. You forget how hot and dusty the city is in August." "I'm going with you," she said decisively, "unless you say no." "I'm going to spend part of the time with you until your vacation begins next month, and then we'll explore every nook and corner of this region." "There Ida, say no more to-day. My cup is overflowing now, and the fear is already growing that such happiness won't last--can't last in a world like ours."