This melody, doubly sacred to him from its associations,
would have grated harshly on his ear if it had been sung by Ida
Mayhew a week before; but, strange to say, the girlish voice that
floated up to him was all the sweeter for thus blending itself with
some of his dearest memories.
When the ascent was half made the artist sprang down from his
rocky perch, and horse and maiden were so startled that they both
stopped instantly.
"Do not be alarmed," said Van Berg, laughing; "I'm not a very
vicious tramp, and am armed with nothing worse than a sketch-book.
If I could only induce you to be an hour in coming up this hill
I'd put you and the phaeton in it. I wish it were possible to put
the song in, too. Why, Miss Mayhew! Am I an ogre, that I frighten
you so?"
"I was not expecting to see you," she faltered, deeply vexed that
her cheeks would crimson and her hand that held the reins tremble
so plainly. "You naturally think I have a very guilty conscience
to be so frightened," she added after a second, and regaining a
little self-control.
"That quaint old hymn tune did not suggest a guilty conscience,"
he said kindly.
"I think I must have heard it at church," she replied.
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