Van Berg, going out for a walk after tea, again heard the girlish voice singing the quaint hymn tune that had awakened the memories of his childhood the previous day. He instantly concealed himself by the roadside, and in a moment or two Ida and her father drove by. He was able in the dusk to note only that her head rested on her father's shoulder, and her voice was sweet and plaintive as she sang words that he could not hear distinctly, but which were as follows, as far as he could catch them: I know not the way he is leading me But I know he is leading me home; Though lonely the path and dark to me, It is safe and it wends to my home. Home of the blest, Home that is rest To the weary pilgrim's feet, to the weary pilgrim's heart. and then her words were lost in the distance. With an impulse he did not think of resisting he followed them back to the hotel and waited patiently till she and her father came out from supper. "Miss Mayhew," he said, a little discontentedly, "I have scarcely had a chance to say a word to you to-day, and it seems to me that I have a great deal to say." She looked at him with some surprise as she replied, "Well, I think I might at least become a good listener." "Do you mean a patient one?" "I never had any patience," she answered, with something like a smile. "And I was never so possessed by the demon of impatience as I have been this afternoon. There hasn't been a soul around that I cared to talk with, and if you knew how out of conceit I am with my own company, you would feel some commiseration. How I envied you your visit to the garden this afternoon, for I felt sure you took your father thither. May I not go with you again to-morrow, or soon? I wish to make my sketch more accurate before beginning your picture." She hesitated a moment, and he little know how he was tempting her. Then she replied, so quietly and decisively as to seem almost cold, "Mr. Eltinge, I'm sure, will be very glad to see you, but I shall go to the city with my father in the morning and remain in town all the week." She was puzzled at his unmistakable expression of regret and disappointment, and added, hastily, "Mr. Van Berg, you are taking far too much trouble. I would be more satisfied--I would be delighted with such a sketch as you made to-day, with the omission of myself." "But if, instead of being trouble, it gave me great pleasure to make the picture with the utmost care?" "I suppose," she replied, "that you have a high artistic sense that must be satisfied, and that you see imperfections that I cannot." "You are too severe upon me, Miss Mayhew, but since you have such good reason, I cannot complain. Still, in justice to myself, I must say that satisfying my artistic sense was not my motive."