"Who is that old gentleman?" she asked of a lady near her.
"That is Mr. Eltinge—Mr. James Eltinge," was the reply.
Ida passed slowly towards the door, looking wistfully back at the old man, who stopped to greet cheerily one and another.
"No one need be afraid to speak to him," she thought. "His every look and tone show him to be kind and sincere. I'll see him before—before"—she shuddered, and scarcely dared to put her dark purpose in thought in the presence of one who had lived patiently at God's will for nearly a century.
She stepped out into the night and watched for his coming. In a moment or two the old gentleman also passed out, and stood waiting for his carriage.
Timidly approaching him, she said, "Mr. Eltinge, may I speak with you?"
He stepped with her a little aside from the others.
"Mr. Eltinge," she continued, in a voice that trembled and was broken by her feeling, "I am one of the young people you spoke to this evening. I'm in trouble—deep trouble. I want such a Friend as you described to-night."
He took her hand and said, in a hearty voice, "God bless you, my child. He wants you more than you want him."
"May I come and see you to-morrow morning?" asked Ida, hurriedly, for his tones of kindness, for which her heart was famishing, were fast breaking down her self-control.