As they were riding home, Ida remarked, shyly:
"I did not know you could draw so well."
"Nor did I either before. That old garden is enchanted ground."
"Yes," said Ida, "poor Eve was driven out of the Garden of Eden,
but I feel as if I had found my way into it. I only wish I could
stay there," and her sigh was long and deep.
"Does the world outside seem very full of thorns and thistles?" he
asked, kindly.
After a moment she replied, simply and briefly, "Yes."
He looked at her sympathetically for a moment, and then said
earnestly:
"Miss Ida, pardon me if I venture a prediction. Wherever you dwell,
hereafter, all that is good and beautiful in life and character
which the garden typifies will begin to take the place of thorns
and thistles."
"I hope so," she faltered, "but that involves bleeding hands, Mr.
Van Berg. I am not cast in heroic mould. I am weak and wavering, and
as a proof I am dwelling on the very subject that I had forbidden.
I trust that you will be too manly to take advantage of my weakness
henceforth and will try to help me forget myself."
"That may be a harder task than you think, but I will attempt
whatever you ask," and from her pleased and interested expression
it would seem that during the next half hour he succeeded remarkably
well.
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