look, and sometimes that shadow of
reproach which our uneasy conscience will cast upon the faces of those
we have wronged. This passed, however, and another image, one which had
ever grown in clearness and persistency of presentment in proportion as
Maud's faded away, glided before him in the hours of summer sunlight,
and shone forth with the beauty of a rising star against the clouded
heaven of his dreams.

Waymark's mood was bitter, but, in spite of himself, it was no longer
cynical. He could not indulge himself in that pessimistic scepticism
which had aided him in bearing his poverty, and the restless craving of
sense and spirit which had accompanied it. His enthusiasm for art was
falling away; as a faith it had failed him in his hour of need. In its
stead another faith had come to him, a faith which he felt to be
all-powerful, and the sole stay of a man's life amid the shifting
shadows of intellectual creeds. And it had been revealed too late. Led
by perverse motives, now no longer intelligible, he had reached a goal
of mere frustration; between him and the true end of his being there
was a great gulf fixed.

To Ida, in the meanwhile, these weeks of early summer were bringing
health of body and cheerfulness of mind. She spent very much of her
time in the open air. Whenever it was possible she and Miss Hurst took
their books out into the garden, and let the shadows of the rose-bushes
mark the hours for them. Ida's natural vigour throve on the
strength-giving properties of sun and breeze the last traces of
unwholesome pallor passed from her face, and exercise sent her home
flushed like the dawn.

One afternoon she went to sit with her grandfather on a bench beneath
an apple-tree. The old man had his pipe and a newspaper. Ida was quiet,
and glancing at her presently, Abraham found her eyes fixed upon him.

"Grandfather," she said, in her gentlest voice, "will you let me give a
garden-party some day next week?"

"A party?" Mr. Woodstock raised his brows in astonishment. "Who are you
going to invite?"

"You'll think it a strange notion.--I wonder whether I can make it seem
as delightful to you as it does to me. Suppose we went to those houses
of yours, and got together as many poor little girls as we could, and
brought them all here to spend an afternoon in the garden. Think what
an unheard-of thing it would be to them! And then we would give them
some tea, and take them back again before dark."

The proposal f