Ida had buried her face in her hands and was trembling violently.
"I did not realize it before," she murmured in a low, shuddering tone. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? Why doesn't the earth open and swallow me up?"
The old man came to her side again, and placing his right hand gently on her bowed head and holding a Bible in his left, continued in grave by very gentle tones:
"Take this Book, my child; it will tell you what to do. It will tell you that merciful and all-powerful arms are open to receive you, and not a hopeless grave. The Son of God has said to the heavy laden, 'Come unto me,' and 'whosoever cometh I will in nowise cast out.' Heaven is full, my child, of just such guilty souls as yours, but it was HE who saved them. It was His precious blood that washed them whiter than snow. When you seek for forgiveness and healing at His feet all will be well, but not till then, and not elsewhere."
"O, Mr. Eltinge," she sobbed, "you have pierced my heart as with a sword."
"I have, indeed, my poor child—with the sword of truth; and what's more, I can't heal the wound I've made."
"What shall I do? oh, what shall I do?" and she fairly writhed in the agony of her remorse.
"'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world,'" he said gently but firmly, and his strong faith and the words of Holy Writ were like a rock, at which, from out of the overwhelming torrent of her remorseful despair, she grasped as her one chance, her one hope.
Lifting her streaming eyes to heaven, and clasping her hands, she cried passionately:
"O Christ, hope of the sinful, if there is mercy for such as I, forgive me, for my crime is like a falling mountain!"