Ever since her drive with Van Berg the previous day, there had been a deep undercurrent of thought in Ida's mind, and she had at last concluded that she could scarcely keep her secret with any certainty while under his eyes, and especially those of Miss Burton. She was too direct and positive in her nature, and her love was too strong and absorbing for the cool and indifferent bearing she was trying to maintain. Her eyes, her cheeks, her tones, and even words, might prove traitors at any time and betray her. She longed to be alone, and teh large empty city house seemed the quiet refuge that she needed. At the same time it would give her deep satisfaction to be with her father after hs return from business, and make amends for years of neglect.
He looked at her wistfully, feeling, in a vague way, that he did not understand her yet. There was a minor chord in her voice, and there had been a sadness in her eyes at times which began to suggest to him that he had not learned all the causes that were so marvellously transforming her form her old self. Her mother would question and question. He, on the contrary, would wait patiently till the confidence was given, and so he merely said gently,
"All right, little girl; I'll try to make you happy in your own way."
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?"