 CHAPTER 8 PART 1 No future hour can rend my heart like this. Save that which breaks it. I am sure in spurtrum. Unless thy law had been my delight, I should then have perished in mine affliction. Psalm 119,92. Elsie was sitting alone in her room, when there came a light tap on the door. Immediately followed, much to the little girl's surprise, by the entrance of her Aunt Adelaide, who shot and locked the door behind her, saying, I am glad you are quite alone, though indeed, I suppose that is almost always the case nowadays. I see, she continued, seating herself by the side of the astonished child, that you were wondering what has brought me to visit you, to whom I have not spoken for so many weeks, but I will tell you. I come from a sincere desire to do you a kindness, Elsie. For though I don't know how to understand, nor excuse your obstinacy, and heartily approve of your father's determination to conquer you, I must say that I think he is unnecessarily harsh and severe in some of his measures. Please don't, Aunt Adelaide, Elsie interrupted, in a pleading voice. Please don't speak so of papa to me, for you know I ought not to hear it. Poo! Nonsense! said Adelaide. It is very naughty in you to interrupt me. But as I was about to remark, I don't see any use in your being forbidden to correspond with Miss Ellison, because her letters could not possibly do you any harm. But rather the contrary, for she is goodness itself, and so I have brought you a letter from her, which has just come and closed in one to me. She took it from her pocket as she spoke, and handed it to Elsie. The little girl looked longingly at it, but made no movement to take it. Thank you, Aunt Adelaide, you are very kind indeed, she said, with tears in her eyes, and I should dearly love to read it, but I cannot touch it without papa's permission. Why you silly child, he will never know anything about it, exclaimed her aunt quickly. I shall never breathe a word to him, nor to anybody else. And of course you will not tell on yourself, and if you are afraid the letter might by some mischance fall into his hands, just destroy it as soon as you have read it. Dear Aunt Adelaide, please take it away, and don't tempt me any more. For I want it so very much, I am afraid I shall take it if you do, and that would be so very wrong, said Elsie, turning away her head. I presume you were afraid to trust me. You needn't be, though, replied Adelaide, in a half-offended tone. Horus will never learn it from me, and there is no possible danger of his ever finding it out in any other way. For I shall write to Rose at once, warning her not to send you any more letters at present. I am not at all afraid to trust you, Aunt Adelaide, nor do I think there is any danger of papa's finding it out, Elsie answered earnestly. But I should know it myself, and God would know it too, and you know he has commanded me to obey my father in everything that is not wrong, and I must obey him, no matter how hard it is. Well, you are a strange child, said Adelaide, as she returned the letter to her pocket, and rose to leave the room. Such a compound of obedience and disobedience I don't pretend to understand. Elsie was beginning to explain, but Adelaide stopped her, saying she had no time to listen, and hastily quitted the room. Elsie brushed away a tear, and took up her book again, for she had been engaged in preparing a lesson for the next day, when interrupted by this unexpected visit from her aunt. Adelaide went directly to her brother's door, and receiving an invitation to enter, an answer to her knock, was the next instant standing by his side, with Miss Ellison's letter in her hand. I've come, Horus, she said, in a lively tone, to seek from you a reward of virtue and a certain little friend of mine, and because you alone can bestow it, I come to you on her behalf, even at the expense of having to confess a sin of my own. Well, take a seat, won't you? he said good-humoredly, laying down his book, and handing her a chair, and then speak out at once, and tell me what you mean by all this nonsense. First for my own confession then, she answered laughingly, accepting the offered seat. I received a letter this morning from my friend Rose Ellison, and closing one to your little Elsie. He began to listen with close attention, while a slight frown gathered on his brow. Now Horus his sister went on, though I approve in the main of your management of that child, which by the way I presume is not of the least consequence to you, yet I must say I have thought it right hard you should deprive her of Rose's letters. So I carried this one, and offered it to her, assuring her that you should never know anything about it. But what do you think? The little goose actually refused to touch it, without Papa's permission. She must obey him, she said, no matter how hard it was, whenever he did not bid her do anything wrong. And now Horus, she concluded, I want you to give me the pleasure of carrying this letter to her, with your permission to read it. I am sure she deserves it. Perhaps so, but I am sure you don't, Adelaide, after tampering with the child's conscience in that manner. You may send her to me, though, if you will, he said, holding out his hand for the letter. But are you quite sure that she really wanted to see it, and felt assured that she might do so without my knowledge? Perfectly certain of it, replied his sister confidently. They chatted for a few minutes longer, Adelaide praising Elsie, and persuading him to treat her with more indulgence. And he, much pleased with this proof of her dutifulness, half promising to do so. And then Adelaide went back to her room, dispatching a servant on her way to tell Elsie that her papa desired to see her immediately. Elsie received the message, with profound alarm. For not dreaming of the true cause, her fears at once suggested that he probably intended putting his late threat into execution. She spent one moment in earnest prayer for strength to bear her trial, and then hastened, pale and trembling, to his presence. How great then was her surprise to see him, as she entered, hold out his hand with a smile, saying in the kindest tone, Come here to me, my daughter. She obeyed, gazing wonderingly into his face. He drew her to him, lifted her to his knee, folded her in his arms, and kissed her tenderly. He had not bestowed such a loving caress upon her, nor indeed ever kissed her at all, excepting on the evening after Chloe's departure, since the unhappy scene in his sickrum. And Elsie, scarcely able to believe she was awake, and not dreaming, hid her face on his breast, and wept for joy. Your aunt has been here telling me what passed between you this afternoon, said he, repeating his caress. And I am much pleased with this proof of your obedience. And as a reward, I will give you permission, not only to read the letter she offered you, but also the one I retained. And I will allow you to write Miss Alison once, and answer to them, the letter passing through my hands. I have also promised, at your aunt's solicitation, to remove some of the restrictions I have placed upon you, and I now give you the same liberty to go about the house and grounds which you formerly enjoyed. Your books and toys shall also be returned to you, and you may take your meals with a family whenever you choose. Thank you, Papa, you are very kind, replied the little girl. But her heart sank, for she understood from his words that she was not restored to favor as she had for a moment fondly imagined. Neither spoke again for some moments. Each felt that this delightful reunion, for it was delightful to both. This enjoyment of the interchange of mutual affection could not last. Silent caresses mingled with sobs and tears on Elsie's part past between them. And at length Mr. Dinsmore said, Elsie, my daughter, I hope you are now ready to make the confession and promises I require. Oh, Papa, dear Papa, she said, looking up into his face with a tear streaming down her own. Have I not been punished enough for that? And can you not just punish me whenever I disobey you, without requiring any promise? Stubborn yet, Elsie, he answered with a frown, no, as I have told you before, my word is as the law of the Meads and Persians, which altered not. I have required the confession and promise, and you must make them. He set her down, but she lingered a moment. Once more, Elsie, I ask you, he said, will you obey? She shook her head. She could not speak. Then go, said her father, I have given you the last caress I ever shall, until you submit. He put the letters into her hand as he spoke, and motioned her to be gone. And Elsie fled away to her own room, to throw herself upon the bed, and weep and groan in intense mental anguish. She cared not for the letters now. They lay neglected on the floor, where they had fallen unheeded from her hand. The gloom on her pathway seemed all the darker for that bright but momentary gleam of sunshine. So dark was the cloud that overshadowed her, that for the time she seemed to have lost all hope, and to be able to think of nothing but the apparent impossibility of ever regaining her place in her father's heart. His last words rang in her ears. Oh, papa, papa, my own papa, she sobbed, will you never love me again, never kiss me again, or call me pet names? Oh, how can I bear it? How can I ever live without your love? Her nerves already weakened by months of mental suffering could hardly bear the strain, and when Fanny came into the room an hour or two later she was quite frightened to find her young charge lying on the bed, holding her head with both hands and groaning, and speechless with pain. What's de-matter, darlin', she asked, that Elsie only answered with a moan, and Fanny, in great alarm, hastened to Mr. Dinsmore's room, and startled him with the exclamation, Oh, Massa Horace, make haste for come to the child, she's going to die for Satan if you don't do something mighty quick. Why, what ails her, Fanny, he asked, following the servant with all speed. Don't know, Massa, but I assure she's very ill, was Fanny's reply, as she opened the door of Elsie's room, and stepped back to allow her master to pass in first. One glance at Elsie's face was enough to convince him that there was some ground for her attendant's alarm. It was ghastly with its deadly pallor and the dark circles round the eyes, and wore an expression of intense pain. He proceeded at once to apply remedies, and remained beside her until they had so far taken effect that she was able to speak, and looked quite like herself again. Elsie, he said, in a grave, firm tone, as he placed her more comfortably on her pillow. This attack has been brought on by violent crying. You must not indulge yourself in that way again. I could not help it, Papa, she replied, lifting her pleading eyes to his face. You must help it in future, Elsie, he said sternly. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she struggled to keep them back. He turned to leave her, but she caught his hand, and looked so beseechingly in his face that he stopped and asked in a softened tone. What is it, my daughter? Oh, Papa, she murmured, in low, tremulous accents. Love me a little. I do love you, Elsie, he replied, gravely, and almost sadly, as he bent over her, and laid his hand upon her forehead. I love you only too well, else I should have sent my stubborn little daughter away from me, long ere this. Then Papa, kiss me, just once, dear Papa, she pleaded, raising her tearful eyes to his face. No, Elsie, not once until you are entirely submissive. This state of things is as painful to me as it is to you, my daughter, but I cannot yield my authority, and I hope you will soon see that it is best for you to give up your self-will. So saying, he turned away and left her alone, alone with that weary homesickness of the heart, and the tears dropping silently down upon her pillow. Horace Stinsmore went back to his own room, where he spent the next half-hour, in pacing rapidly to and fro, with folded arms and contracted brow. Strange, he muttered, that she is so hard to conquer. I never imagined that she could be so stubborn. One thing is certain, he added, heaving a deep sigh. We must separate for a time, or I shall be in danger of yielding. For it is no easy matter to resist her tearful pleadings, backed as they are by the yearning affection of my own heart. How I love the perverse little thing! Truly she has wound herself around my very heartstrings. But I must get these absurd notions out of her head, or I shall never have any comfort with her. And if I yield now, I may as well just give that up entirely. Besides I have said it, and I will have her to understand that my word is law. And with another heavy sigh, he threw himself upon the sofa, where he lay in deep thought for some moments. Then suddenly springing up, he rang the bell for his servant. John, he said, as the man appeared in answer to his summons. I shall leave for the north to-morrow morning. See that my trunk is packed, and everything in readiness. You are to go with me, of course." Yes, Massa, I'll tend to it, replied John, bowing, and retiring with a grin of satisfaction on his face. Barry Gled he chuckled to himself, as he hurried away to tell the news in the kitchen. Barry Gled, that young Massa's got tired, abdised dull old place at last. Wonder if little Miss Elsie guined along. Elsie rose the next morning, feeling very weak, and looking pale and sad, and not caring to avail herself of her father's permission to join the family. She took her breakfast in her own room, as usual. She was on her way to the school room soon afterwards. When seeing her papa's man carrying out his trunk, she stopped and inquired in a tone of alarm. Why, John, is papa going away? Yes, Miss Elsie, but ain't you guined long? I suppose she was. No, John, she answered faintly, leaning against the wall for support. But where is papa going? Up north, Miss Elsie, dunno no more about it, better ask Massa Horace himself, replied the servant, looking compassionately at her pale face and eyes brimful of tears. Mr. Dinsmore himself appeared at this moment, and Elsie, starting forward with clasped hands and the tears running down her cheeks, looked piteously up into his face, exclaiming, Oh, papa, dear, are you going away and without me? Without replying, he took her by the hand, and turning back into his room again, shut the door, sat down, and lifted her to his knee. His face was very pale and sad too, but with all wore an expression of firm determination. Elsie laid her head on his shoulder, and sobbed out her tears in entreaties, that he would not leave her. It depends entirely upon yourself, Elsie, he said presently. I gave you warning for some time since, that I would not keep a rebellious child in my sight, and while you continue such, either you or I must be banished from home, and I prefer to exile myself rather than you. But a submissive child I will not leave. It is not yet too late. You have only two yields to my requirements, and I will stay at home, or delay my journey for a few days, and take you with me. But if you prefer separation from me to giving up your own self-will, you have no one to blame but yourself. He waited a moment, then said, once more I ask you, Elsie, will you obey me? O Papa, always if— Hush, he said sternly, you know that will not do. And setting her down, he rose to go. But she clung to him with desperate energy. O Papa, she sobbed, when will you come back? That depends upon you, Elsie, he said. Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have so vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that very day, if possible, I will start for home. He laid his hand on the handle of the door as he spoke. But clinging to him, and looking up beseechingly into his face, she pleaded in piteous tones, amid her bitter sobs and tears. Papa, dear, dear, Papa, kiss me once before you go. Just once, Papa, perhaps you may never come back. Perhaps I may die. O Papa, Papa, will you go away without kissing me? Me, your own little daughter, that you used to love so dearly? O Papa, my heart will break. His own eyes filled with tears, and he stooped as if to give her the coveted caress. But hastily drawing back again, said, with much of his accustomed sternness, No, Elsie, I cannot break my word, and if you are determined to break your own heart and mine by your stubbornness, on your own head be the consequences. And putting her forcibly aside, he opened the door and went out. While with a cry of despair, she sank, half fainting upon the floor. End of CHAPTER 8 PART 2 She was roused air-long by the sound of a carriage driving up to the door, and the thought flashed upon her. She is not gone yet, and I may see him once more, and springing to her feet, she ran downstairs to find the rest of the family in the hall, taking leave of her father. He was just stooping to give Anna a farewell kiss, as his little daughter came up. He did not seem to notice her, but was turning away. When Anna said, Here is Elsie, aren't you going to kiss her before you go? He turned round again, to see those soft hazel eyes, with their mournful pleading gaze, roused upon his face. He never forgot that look. It haunted him all his life. He stood for an instant, looking down upon her, while that mute, appealing glance still met his, and she ventured to take his hand in both of hers, and press it to her lips. But he turned resolutely away, saying, in his calm, cold tone, No, Elsie is a stubborn, disobedient child. I have no caress for her. A moan of heart-breaking anguish burst from Elsie's pale and trembling lips, and covering her face with her hands, she sank down upon the doorstep, vainly struggling to suppress the bitter, choking sobs that shook her whole frame. But her father was already in the carriage, and hearing it begin to move, she hastily dashed away her tears, and strained her eyes to catch the last glimpse of it, as it whirled away down the avenue. It was quite gone, and she rose up and sadly re-entered the house. I don't pity her at all, she heard her grandfather say, for it is all her own fault, and serves her just right. But so utterly crushed and heartbroken was she already, that the cruel words fell quite unheeded upon her ear. She went directly to her father's deserted room, and shutting herself in, tottered to the bed, and laying her face on the pillow, where his head had rested a few hours before, clasped her arms around it, and wedded it with her tears, moaning sadly to herself all the while. Oh, Papa, my own dear, darling Papa, I shall never, never see you again. Oh, how can I live without you? Who is there to love me now? Oh, Papa, Papa, will you never, never come back to me? Papa, Papa, my heart is breaking, I shall die. From that time the little Elsie drooped in pine, growing paler and thinner by day. Her step more languid, and her eye more dim, till no one could have recognized in her the bright, rosy joyous child, full of health and happiness, that she had been six months before. She went about the house like a shadow, scarcely ever speaking, or being spoken to. She made no complaint, and seldom shed tears now, but seemed to have lost her interest in everything, and to be sinking into a kind of apathy. I wish, said Mrs. Dinsmore one day, as Elsie passed out into the garden, that Horace had sent that child to boarding school, and stayed at home himself. Her father says he needs him, and as to her, she has grown so melancholy of late. It is enough to give one the vapors, just to look at her. I am beginning to feel troubled about her, replied Adelaide, to whom the remark had been addressed. She seems to be losing flesh, and strength too, so fast. The other day I went into her room, and found Fanny crying heartily over a dress of Elsie's, which she was altering. Oh, Miss Adelaide, she sobbed, the child going to die for certain. I know, Fanny, I said. What makes you think so? She is not sick. But she shook her head, saying, Just look a here, Miss Adelaide, showing me how much she was obliged to take the dress in to make it fit. And then she told me Elsie had grown so weak, that the least exertion overcame her. I think I must write to Horace. Oh, nonsense, Adelaide, said her mother. I wouldn't trouble him about it. Children are very apt to grow thin in lingward during the hot weather, and I suppose fretting after him makes it affect her rather than usual. And just now in the holidays she has nothing else to occupy her thoughts. She will do well enough. So Adelaide's fears were relieved, and she delayed writing, thinking that her mother surely knew best. Mrs. Trevilla sat in her cool, shady parlour, quietly knitting. She was alone, but the glance she occasionally sent from the window seemed to say that she was expecting someone. Edward is unusually late today, she murmured half aloud, but there he is at last, she added, as her son appeared, riding slowly up the avenue. He dismounted and entered the house, and in another moment had thrown himself down upon the sofa by her side. She looked at him uneasily, for with the quick ear of affection she had noticed that his step lacked its accustomed elasticity, and his voice its cheerful, hearty tones. His orders to the servant who came to take his horse had been given in a lower and more subdued key than usual, and his greeting to herself, though perfectly kind and respectful, was grave and absent in manner, and now his thoughts seemed far away, and the expression of his countenance was sad and troubled. What ails you, Edward, as anything wrong, my son? She asked, laying her hand on his shoulder, and looking into his face with her loving motherly eyes. Nothing with me, mother, he answered affectionately. But he added, with a deep, drawn sigh, I am sorely troubled about my little friend. I called at Rosalind's this afternoon, and learned that Horace Dinsmore has gone north. To be absent nobody knows how long, leaving her at home. He has been gone nearly a week, and the child is heartbroken. Poor darling, is she really so much distressed about it, Edward? His mother asked, taking off her spectacles to wipe them, for they had suddenly grown dim. You saw her, I suppose? Yes, for a moment, he said, struggling to control his feelings. Mother, you would hardly know her for the child she was six months ago. She is so changed, so thin and pale. But that is not the worst. She seems to have lost all her life in animation. I felt as though it would be a relief, even to see her cry. When I spoke to her, she smiled. It is true. But ah, such a sad, hopeless, dreary sort of smile. It was far more touching than tears. And then she turned away, as if she had scarcely heard, or understood, what I said. Mother, you must go to her. She needs just the sort of comfort you understand so well how to give. But which I know nothing about. You will go, mother, will you not? Gladly, Edward, I would go this moment, if I thought I would be permitted to see her, and could do her any good. I hardly think, said her son, that even Mrs. Dinsmore would refuse you the privilege of a private interview with a child, should you request it, mother. But no doubt, it would be much pleasanter for all parties, if we could go when Elsie is at home alone. And fortunately such will be the case tomorrow. For as I accidentally learned, the whole family, with the exception of Elsie and the servants, are expecting to spend the day abroad. So if it suits you, mother, we will drive over in the morning. Mrs. Travilla expressed her readiness to do so, and about the middle of the four-noon of the next day, their carriage might have been seen turning into the avenue at Rosalinds. Pomp came out to receive the visitors. Very sorry, Massa and Mrs., he said, making his best bow to them, as they alighted from the carriage. Daddy family am all from home, with a single exception of little Miss Elsie. But if you will be pleased to walk into the draw-in room, and rest yourselves, I will call for suitable refreshments, and Fanny shall be instantly dispatched to bring the young lady down. Oh, thank you, Pomp, replied Mr. Travilla presently. We are not at all in want of refreshments, and my mother would prefer seeing Miss Elsie in her own room. I will step into the drawing-room, mother, until you come down again," he added in an undertone to her. Pomp was about to lead the way, but Mrs. Travilla gently put him aside, saying that she would prefer to go along, and had no need of a guide. She found the door of Elsie's room standing wide to admit the air, for the weather was now growing very warm indeed. And looking in, she perceived the little girl, half reclining upon a sofa, her head resting on the arm, her hands clasped in her lap, and her sad, dreamy eyes, tearless and dry, gazing mournfully into vacancy, as though her thoughts were far away, following the wanderings of her absent father. She seemed to have been reading, or trying to read, but the book had fallen from her hand, and lay unheeded on the floor. Mrs. Travilla stood for several minutes gazing with tearful eyes at the melancholy little figure, marking with an aching heart the ravages that Sorrow had already made in the wan child face. Then, stealing softly in, sat down by her side, and took the little four-learn one into her kind motherly embrace, laying the weary little head down on her breast. Elsie did not speak, but merely raised her eyes for an instant to Mrs. Travilla's face. With a dreary smile her son had spoken of, and then dropped them again, with a sigh that was half a sob. Mrs. Travilla pressed her quivering lips on the child's forehead, and a scalding tear fell on her cheek. Elsie started, and again raising her mournful eyes, said in a husky whisper, Don't, dear Mrs. Travilla, don't cry. I never cry now. And why not, darling? Tears are often a blessed relief to an aching heart, and I think it would do you good. These dry eyes need it. No, no, I cannot. They are all dried up, and it is well, for they always displeased my papa. There was a dreary hopelessness in her tone, and in the mournful shake of her head, that was very touching. Mrs. Travilla sighed, and pressed the little form closer to her heart. Elsie, dear, she said, You must not give way to despair. Your troubles have not come by chance. You know, darling, who has sent them. And remember, it is those whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and he will not always chide, neither will he keep his anger for ever. Is he angry with me? She asked fearfully. No, dearest, it is all sent in love. We cannot see the reason now, but one day we shall, when we get home to our father's house. For then everything will be made plain. It may be, Elsie, dear, that you, by your steady adherence to the right, are to be made the honoured instrument in bringing your father to a saving knowledge of Christ. You would be willing to suffer a great deal for that, dear child. Would you not? Even all you are suffering now? Ah, yes indeed, she said earnestly, clasping her hands together. But I am afraid it is not that. I am afraid it is because I loved my papa too well. My dear, dear papa, and God is angry with me, and now I shall never, never see him again. She groaned aloud, and covered her face with her hands. And now the tears fell like rain, and her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. Mrs. Travella hailed this outburst of grief with deep thankfulness, knowing that it was far better for her than that unnatural apathy, and that when the first violence of the storm had subsided, the aching heart would find itself relieved of half its load. She gently soothed the little weeper, until she began to grow calm again, and the sobs were almost hushed, and the tears fell softly and quietly. Then she said, in low, tender tones, Yes, my darling, you will see him again. I feel quite sure of it. God is a hearer of prayer, and he will hear yours for your dear father. And will he send my papa back to me? Will he come soon? Do you think he will, dear Mrs. Travella? She asked eagerly. I don't know, darling. I cannot tell that. But one thing we do know, that it is all in God's hands, and he will do just what is best for you and your father. He may see fit to restore you to each other in a few weeks or months, and I hope and trust he will. However that may be, darling, remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, your father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. He will not send you any unnecessary trial, nor allow you to suffer one pain that you do not need. It may be that he saw you were loving your earthly father too well, and has removed him from you for a time, that thus he may draw you nearer to himself. But never doubt for one moment, dear one, that it is all done in love. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. They are the dear Savior's own words. When Mrs. Travella at length rose to go, Elsie clung to her tearfully, and treating that she would stay a little longer. I will, dear child, since you wish it so much, said the lady, resuming her seat, and I will come again very soon, if you think there will be no objection. But, Elsie, dear, can you not come to Ion and spend the rest of your holidays with us? Both Edward and I would be delighted to have you, and I think we could make you happier than you are here. I cannot tell you how very much I should like it, dear Mrs. Travella, but it is quite impossible, Elsie answered, with the sorrowful shake of the head. I am not allowed to pay or receive visits any more. Papa forbade it some time ago. Ah, indeed, I am very sorry, dear, for I fear that cuts me off from visiting you, said Mrs. Travella, looking much disappointed. However, she added more cheerfully, I will get my son to write to your papa, and perhaps he may give you permission to visit us. No, ma'am, I cannot hope that he will, replied Elsie sadly. Papa never breaks his word, or changes his mind. Ah, well, dear child, said her friend tenderly, there is one precious blessing of which no one can deprive you, the presence and love of your savior, and if you have that, no one can make you wholly miserable. And now, dear child, I must go, she added, again clasping the little girl to her heart, and kissing her many times. God bless and keep you, darling, till we meet again, and we will hope that time will come ere long. Mr. Travella was waiting to hand his mother into the carriage. Neither of them spoke, until they had fairly left Rosalinds behind them, but then he turned to her, with an anxious inquiring look, to which she replied, Yes, I found her in just the state you described, poor darling, but I think I left her a little happier, or rather, I should say, a little less wretched than I found her. Edward, Horace Dinsmore does not know what he is doing. That child's heart is breaking. He gave an assenting nod, and turned away to hide his emotion. Can you not write to him, Edward, and describe the state she is in, and beg him, if he will not come home, at least to permit us to take her to Ion for a few weeks? She asked, laying her hand on his arm. I will do so, mother, if you think it best. Under travel, it replied, But I think I know Horace Dinsmore better than you do, and that such a proceeding would do more harm than good. He is very jealous of anything that looks like interference, especially between him and his child, and I fear it would only irritate him, and make him, if possible, still more determined. Were I asked to describe his character in a few words, I should say he is a man of indomitable will. Well, my son, perhaps you are right, said his mother, heaving a deep sigh. And if so, I can see nothing more we can do but pray for the little girl. Mrs. Traveller was right in thinking that her visit had done Elsie good. It had roused her out of the torpor of grief into which she had sunk. It had raised her from the depths of despair, and shown her the beacon light of hope still shining in the distance. This last blow had come with such crushing weight that there had seemed to be no room left in her heart for a thought of comfort. But now her kind friend had reminded her of the precious promises and the tender love that were still hers, love far exceeding that of any earthly parent, love that was able even to bring light out of all this thick darkness, love which was guiding and controlling all the events of her life, and would never allow her to suffer one unnecessary pain, but would remove the trial as soon as its needed work was done, and she was now no longer altogether comfortless. When Mrs. Traveller had left, she took up her Bible, that precious little volume, her never-failing comforter, and in turning over its leaves her eye fell upon these words, unto you it is given in the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on him, but also to suffer for his sake. They sent a thrill of joy to her heart, for was not she suffering for his sake, was it not because she loved him too well to disobey his commands, even to please her dearly beloved earthly father, that she was thus deprived of one privilege, and one comfort after another, and subjected to trials that rung her very heart? Yes, it was because she loved Jesus, she was bearing suffering for his dear sake, and here she was taught that even to be permitted to suffer for him was a privilege, and she remembered too, that in another place it is written, if we suffer, we shall also reign with him. Ah, those are tears of joy and thankfulness that are falling now. She has grown calm and peaceful, even happy for the time, in the midst of all her sorrow. CHAPTER IX Even often mercy smites, even when the blow, severest is, Joanna Bally's aura. The heart knoweth his own bitterness, Proverbs 14.10. But only a few days after Mrs. Travella's visit, an event occurred, which by exciting Elsie's sympathy for the sorrows of another, and thus preventing her from dwelling so constantly upon her own, was of great benefit to her. Adelaide received a letter bringing tidings of the death of one who had been very dear to her. The blow was very sudden, entirely unexpected, and the poor girl was overwhelmed with grief, made all the harder to endure by the want of sympathy in her family. Her parents had indeed given their consent to the contemplated union, but because the gentleman, though honorable, intelligent, educated, and talented, was neither rich nor high-born, they had never very heartily approved of the connection, and were evidently rather relieved than afflicted by his death. Elsie was the only one who really felt deeply for her aunt, and her silent, unobtrusive sympathy was very grateful. The little girl seemed to almost forget her own sorrows for the time, and trying to relieve those of her bereaved aunt. Elsie knew, and this made her sympathy far deeper and more heartfelt, that Adelaide had no consolation in her sort of stress, but such miserable comfort as may be found in the things of earth. She had no compassionate savior to whom to carry her sorrows, but must bear them all alone. And while Elsie was permitted to walk in the light of his countenance, and to her ear there ever came the soft whispers of his love, fear not, thou art mine. I have loved thee with an everlasting love. I will never leave thee, nor forsake me. To Adelaide all was darkness and silence. At first Elsie's sympathy was shown in various little kind offices, sitting for hours beside her aunt's couch, gently fanning her, handing her a drink of cold water, bringing her sweets and flowers, and anticipating every want. But at last she ventured to speak. Dear Aunt Adelaide, she whispered, I am so sorry for you. I wish I knew how to comfort you. Oh, Elsie, sobbed the mourner. There is no comfort for me. I have lost my dearest treasure, my all, and no one cares. Dear Aunt Adelaide, replied the child timidly, it is true I am only a little girl, but I do care very much for your grief, and surely your papa and mama are very sorry for you. Adelaide shook her head mournfully. They are more glad than sorry, she said, bursting into tears. Well, dear Auntie, said Elsie softly, there is one who does feel for you, and who is able to comfort you if you will only go to him, one who loved you so well that he died to save you. No, no, Elsie, not me. He cannot care for me. He cannot love me, or he would never have taken away my earnest, she sobbed. Dear Aunt Adelaide, said Elsie's low, sweet voice, we cannot always tell what is best for us, and will make us happiest in the end. I remember once when I was a very little child. I was walking with Mammy in a part of my guardian's grounds where we seldom went. I was running on before her, and I found a bush with some beautiful red berries. They looked delicious, and I hastily gathered some, and was just putting them to my mouth. When Mammy, seeing what I was about, suddenly sprang forward, snatched them out of my hand, threw them on the ground, and tramped upon them, and then tearing up the bushes, treated them in the same manner, while I stood by crying and calling her a naughty cross, Mammy, to take my nice berries from me. Well, said Adelaide, as the little girl paused in her narrative, what do you mean by your story? You haven't finished it, but, of course, the berries were poisonous. Yes, said Elsie, and Mammy was wiser than I, and knew that what I so earnestly coveted would do me great injury. And now for the application, said Adelaide, interrupting her. You mean that just as Mammy was wiser than you, and took your treasure from you in kindness, so God is wise and kind in taking mine from me. But, ah, Elsie, the analogy will not hold good, for my good, wise, kind earnest, could never have harmed me as the poisonous berries would you. No, no, no, he always did me good, she cried, with a passionate burst of grief. Elsie waited until she grew calm again, and then said gently, The Bible says, dear Auntie, that God does not willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. Perhaps he saw that you loved your friend too well, and would never give your heart to Jesus unless he took him away. And so you could only live with him for a little while in this world. But now he has taken him to heaven, I hope, for Laura told me Mr. St. Clare was a Christian, and if you will only come to Jesus, and take him for your Savior, you can look forward to spending a happy eternity there with your friend. So dear Aunt Adelaide, may we not believe that God, who is infinitely wise and good and kind, has sent you this great sorrow in love and compassion? Adelaide's only answer was a gentle pressure of the little hand she held, accompanied by a flood of tears. But after that she seemed to love Elsie better than she ever had before, and to want her always by her side, often asking her to read a chapter in the Bible, a request with which the little girl always complied most gladly. Adelaide was very silent, burying her thoughts almost entirely in her own bosom. But it was evident that the blessed teachings of the holy book were not altogether lost upon her, for the extreme violence of her grief gradually abated, and the expression of her countenance, though still sad, became gentle and patient. And could Elsie thus minister consolation to another, and yet find no lessening of her own burden of sorrow? Assuredly not. She could not repeat to her Auntie the many sweet and precious promises of God's holy word, without having them brought home to her own heart with renewed power. She could not preach Jesus to another without finding him still nearer and dear to her own soul. And though there were yet times when she was almost overwhelmed with grief, she could truly say that the consolations of God were not small with her. There was often a weary, weary aching at her heart, such an unutterable longing for her father's love and favor, as would send her weeping to her knees, to plead long and earnestly that this trial might be removed. Yet she well knew who had sent it, and was satisfied that it was one of the all things which shall work together for good to them that love God. And she was at length enabled to say in reference to it, Thy will, not mine be done, and to bear her cross with patient submission. But there was many a bitter struggle first. She had many sad and lonely hours, and there were times when the yearning of the poor little heart for her father's presence and her father's love was almost more than weak human nature could endure. Sometimes she would walk her room, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly. Oh, Papa, Papa, she would exclaim, again and again, how can I bear it? How can I bear it? Will you never, never come back? Will you never, never love me again? And then would come up the memory of his words on that sad, sad day when he left her. Whenever my little daughter writes to me the words I have so vainly endeavored to induce her to speak, that very day, if possible, I will start for home. And the thought that it was in her power to recall him at any time. It was but to write a few words and send them to him, and soon he would be with her. He would take her to his heart again, and this terrible trial would be over. The temptation was fearfully strong, the struggle often long and terrible, and the fierce battle had to be fought again and again, and once the victory had well now been lost. She had struggled long, again and again, had she resolved that she would not, could not, dare not yield. But vainly she strove to put away the sense of that weary aching void in her heart, that longing yearning desire for her father's love. I cannot bear it. Oh, I cannot bear it! she exclaimed at length, and seizing a pen, she wrote hastily, and with trembling fingers, while the hot, blinding tears dropped thick and fast upon the paper. Papa, come back. Oh, come to me, and I will be and do all you ask, all you require. But the pen dropped from her fingers, and she bowed her face upon her clasped hands with a cry of bitter anguish. How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God? The word started through her mind like a flash of lightning, and then the words of Jesus seemed to come to her ear in solemn tones. He that loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me. What have I done? she cried. Has it come to this that I must choose between my father and my savior? And can I give up the love of Jesus? Oh, never, never! Jesus I my cross have taken, all to leave, and follow thee. She repeated, half aloud, with clasped hands, and an upward glance of her tearful eyes. Then tearing into fragments what she had just written, she fell on her knees, and prayed earnestly for pardon, and for strength to resist temptation, and to be faithful unto death, that she might receive the crown of life. When Elsie rapped at her aunt's dressing-room door the next morning, no answer was returned. And after waiting a moment, she softly opened it, and entered, expecting to find her aunt sleeping. But no, though extended upon a couch, Adelaide was not sleeping, but lay with her face buried in the pillows, sobbing violently. Elsie's eyes filled with tears, and softly approaching the mourner, she attempted to soothe her grief with words of gentle, loving sympathy. Oh, Elsie, you cannot feel for me. It is impossible, exclaimed her aunt passionately. You have never known sorrow to be compared with mine. You have never loved and lost. You have known none but mere childish griefs. The heart knoweth his own bitterness, thought Elsie, silent tears stealing down her cheeks, and her breast heaving with emotion. Dear Aunt Adelaide, she said in tremulous tones, I think I can feel for you. Have I not known some sorrow? Is it nothing that I have pined all my life long for a mother's love, nothing to have been separated from the dear nurse who had almost supplied her place? Oh, Aunt Adelaide, she continued, with a burst of uncontrollable anguish. Is it nothing, nothing to be separated from my beloved father, my dear only parent, whom I love better than my life, to be refused even a parting caress, to live month after month, and year after year, under his frown, and to fear that his love may be lost to me forever? Oh, papa, papa, will you never, never love me again? She cried, sinking on her knees, and covering her face with her hands, while the tears trickled fast between the slender fingers. Her aunt's presence was for the moment entirely forgotten, and she was alone with her bitter grief. Adelaide looked at her with a good deal of surprise. She had never before seen her give way to such a burst of sorrow, for Elsie was usually calm in the presence of others. Poor child, she said, drawing the little girl towards her, and gently pushing back the hair from her forehead. I should not have said that. You have your own troubles, I know. Hard enough to bear, too. I think Horace is really cruel, and if I were you, Elsie, I would just give up loving him entirely, and never care for his absence or his displeasure. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, not love my own dear papa. I must love him. I could not help it if I would. No, not even if he were going to kill me. And please don't blame him. He does not mean to be cruel. But oh, if he would only love me, sobbed the little girl. I am sure he does, Elsie, if that is any comfort. Here is a letter from him. He speaks of you in the post-script. You may take it to your room, and read it if you like. I will write her aunt, putting a letter into Elsie's hand. Go now, child, and see if you can extract any comfort from it. Elsie replied with a gush of tears, and a kiss of thanks, for her little heart was much too full for speech. Clasping the precious letter tightly in her hand, she hastened to her own room, and locked herself in. Then drawing it from the envelope, she kissed the well-known characters again and again, dashing away the blinding tears, air she could see to read. It was short, merely a letter of condolence to Adelaide, expressing a brother's sympathy in her sorrow, but the post-script sent one ray of joy to the little sad heart of his daughter. Is Elsie well? I cannot altogether banish a feeling of anxiety regarding her health, for she was looking pale and thin when I left home. I trust to you, my dear sister, to send immediately for a physician, and also to write at once, should she show any symptoms of disease. Here she is my only, and darling child, very near and dear to me still, in spite of the sad estrangement between us. Ah, then Papa has not forgotten me. He does love me still. He calls me his darling child, murmured the little girl, dropping her tears upon the paper. Oh, how glad, how glad I am! Surely he will come back to me some day. And she felt that she would be very willing to be sick if that would hasten his return. CHAPTER X In this wild world the fondest and the best are the most tried, most troubled, and distressed crab. It was about a week after this that Elsie's grandfather handed her a letter directed to her in her father's handwriting, and the little girl rushed away to her room with it, her heart beating wildly between hope and fear. Her hand trembled so that she could scarcely tear it open, and her eyes were so dimmed with tears that it was some moments before she could read a line. It was kind, yes even affectionate, and in some parts tender, but ah, it has brought no comfort to the little girl. Thus why does she finish with a burst of tears and sobs, and sinking upon her knees, hide her face and her hands, crying with a bitter, wailing cry? Oh, papa, papa, papa! He told her of the estate he had purchased, and the improvements he had been making. Of a suite of rooms he had had prepared, and furnished expressly for her, close to his own apartments, and of the pleasant home he hoped they would have there together, forcing to dispense with the governess, and teach her himself, for that he knew she would greatly prefer. He drew a bright picture of the peaceful, happy life they might lead, but finished by telling her that the condition was entire, unconditional submission on her part, and the alternative, a boarding school, at a distance from home and friends. He had, on separating her from her nurse, forbidden her to hold any communication with her, or even to ride in the direction of the oaks, as his estate was called, and Elsie had scrupulously obeyed him. But now he bade her go, and see the lovely home and beautiful apartments he had prepared for her, and judge for herself of the happiness she might enjoy there, loved and caressed and taught by him, and then decide. If she were ready to give up her willfulness, he wrote, she might answer him immediately, and he would then return, and their new home should receive them, and their new life begin at once. But if she were still inclined to be stubborn and rebellious, she must take a month to consider, ere he would receive her reply. Ah, to little Elsie it was a most enchanting picture he had drawn, to live in her father's house, his own home and hers, to be his constant and loved companion, to exchange Miss Day's teaching for his, to walk, to ride, to sit with him, and a word to live in the sunshine of his love. Oh, it would be paradise upon earth. And then the alternative. Oh, how dreadful seemed to the shrinking, sensitive child the very thought of being sent away amongst entire strangers, who could not be expected to care for her, or love her, who would have no sympathy with her highest hopes and desires, and instead of assisting her to walk in the narrow way, would strive to turn her feet aside into the paths of worldly conformity and sin. For alas, she well knew it was only to the care of such persons her father would be likely to commit her, wishing, as he did, to root out of her mind what he was pleased to call the narrow prejudices of her unfortunate early training. Poor child, she shrank from it in terror and dismay. But should she choose that which her poor, hungry heart so yearned for, the home with her father, she must pledge herself to take as her rule of faith and practice, that God's holy word, which had hitherto been her guidebook, but her father's wishes and commands, which she well knew would often be entirely opposed to its teachings. It was indeed a hard choice, but Elsie could not hesitate where the path of duty was so plain. She seemed to hear a voice saying to her, This is the way, walk ye in it. We ought to obey God rather than men. Ah, she murmured, I cannot do this great wickedness and sin against God. Or if my earthly father's frown is so dreadful, so very hard to bear, how much worse would be my heavenly father's? But, oh, that boarding school, how can I ever endure its trials and temptations? I am so weak and sinful. Ah, if Papa would but spare me this trial, if he would only let me stay at home, but he will not, for he has said I must go, and never breaks his word. And again her tears fell fast, but she dashed them away, and took up her Bible. It opened at the fiftieth chapter of Isaiah, and her eye fell upon these words, For the Lord God will help me, therefore shall I not be confounded, therefore have I set my face like a flint, and I know that I shall not be ashamed. Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God. Ah, here was comfort. The Lord God will help me, she repeated, and bowing her face over the holy book she gave thanks for the precious promise, and earnestly, tearfully pleaded that it might be fulfilled unto her. Then rising from her knees, she bathed her eyes, and rang for fanny to prepare her for her ride. It was the usual hour for it, her horse was already at the door, and very soon the little girl might have been seen galloping up the road toward the oaks, quite alone, expecting that Jim, her constant attendant, rode some yards in the rear. It was a pleasant summer morning. There had been just rain enough the night before to cool the air and lay the dust, and everything was looking fresh and beautiful, and had the little Elsie's heart been as light and free from care as would have seemed natural to one of her age, she would no doubt have enjoyed her ride extremely. It was but a short one, and the place well known to her, for she had often passed it, though she had never yet been in the grounds. In a few moments she reached the gate, and Jim, having dismounted and opened it for her, she rode leisurely up a broad, graveled carriageway, which wound about through the grounds, giving the traveller a number of beautiful views ere he reached the house, a large building of dark grey stone, which stood so far back, and was so entirely hidden by trees and shrubbery, as to be quite invisible from the highway. Now the road was shaded on either hand by large trees, their branches almost meeting overhead, and anon and opening in their ranks afforded a glimpse of some charming little valley, some sequestered nook amongst the hills, some grassy meadow or field of golden wheat, or a far-off view of the sea. Oh, how lovely murmured the little girl, dropping the reins on her horse's neck, and gazing about her with eyes now sparkling with pleasure, now dimmed with tears. For alas, these lovely scenes were not for her, at least not now, and it might be never, and her heart was very sad. At length she reached the house, Chloe met her at the door, and clasped her to her bosom with tears of joy and thankfulness. Bless thee, Lord, for his goodness, and send in my child back to her old mammy again, she said. I so glad, darling, so very glad. And as she spoke she drew the little girl into a pleasant room, fitted up with books and pictures, couches and easy chairs and tables, with every convenience for writing, drawing, et cetera. To Sam, Massa Horace's study, she said, and answered to the eager, inquiring glance Elsie sent round the room, while she removed her hat and habit, and seated her in one of the softly cushioned chairs. And the next room is your own little sit-in room, and just the prettiest ever was seen, your old mammy tinks, and now that she's got her child back again, she'll be as happy as the day am long. Oh, mammy, sobbed the child, I am not to stay. Chloe's look of delight changed to one of blank dismay. But you are coming soon, darling, she said inquiringly. I tink Massa Horace tends to be here for long, certain, case he's had the whole house fixed up so fine, and I sure he never takes so much trouble, and spends such lobes of money fixing up such pretty rooms for you, if he didn't love you dearly, and tend to have you here long with himself. Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. No, mammy, he says not unless I give up my willfulness, and promise to do exactly as he bids me, and if I will not do that, I am to be sent away to boarding school. The last words came with a great sob, as she flung herself into Chloe's outstretched arms, and hid her face on her bosom. Poor darling, poor little pet murmured the nurse, hugging her tight, while her own tears fell in great drops on the golden curls. I thought your troubles were all over. I supposed Massa Horace had found out you wasn't bad after all, and was coming right home to live with you in this beautiful place. But dare, don't, don't you go for to break your little heart bout it, dear. I sure the good Thor makes them all come right in the end. Elsie made no reply, and for a little while they mingled their tears in silence. Then she raised her head, and gently releasing herself from Chloe's embrace, said, Now, mammy, I must go all about, and see everything, for that was Papa's command. Chloe silently led the way through halls, parlors, drawing-room, library, dining, sitting, and bedrooms, servants' apartments, kitchen, pantry, and all. Then out into the grounds, visiting intern, vegetable, and flower gardens, lawn, hot houses, and grape-ery, and finally, bringing the little girl back to her Papa's study, she led her from there, into his bedroom and dressing-room, and then to her own apartments, which she had reserved to the last. These were three, bedroom, sitting-room, and dressing-room, all beautifully furnished with every comfort and convenience. Elsie had gazed on all with a yearning heart, and eyes constantly swimming in tears. Ah, mammy, she exclaimed more than once, what a lovely, lovely home, how happy we might be here. The sight of her father's rooms and her own affected her the most, and the tears fell fast as she passed slowly from one to another. Her own little sitting-room was the last, and here, sinking down in an easy chair, she gazed about her silently and tearfully. On one side, the windows looked out upon a beautiful flower garden, while beyond were hills and woods. On the other, glass doors opened out upon a grassy lawn, shaded by large trees, and beyond, far away in the distance, rolled the blue sea. All around her she saw the evidences of a father's thoughtful love, a beautiful piano, a harp, a small work-table, well furnished with every requisite, books, drawing materials, everything to give pleasure and employment, while luxurious couches and easy-chairs invited to rest and repose. Several rare pictures, too, adorned the walls. She was very fond of paintings, and when she had gazed her fill upon the lovely landscape without, she turned from one of these to another with interest and pleasure. But one was covered, and she was in the act of raising her hand to draw aside the curtain, when her nurse stopped her, saying, Not now, darling, try the piano first. She opened the instrument as she spoke, and Elsie, running her fingers over the keys, remarked that it was the sweetest tone she had ever heard. She begged her to play, urging her request on the plea that it was so very long since she had heard her, and she might not have another opportunity soon. Just at that instant a little bird on a tree near the door poured forth his joy in a gush of glad melody, and Elsie again running her fingers lightly over the keys, saying with touching sweetness and pathos, Ye banks and braves of Bonnie Dune, how can ye look so bright and fair? How can you sing, ye little bird? And I say weary, full of care, etc. The word seemed to come from her very heart, and her voice, though sweet and clear, was full of tears. Chloe sobbed aloud, and Elsie, looking lovingly at her, said softly, Don't, dear Mammy, I will sing a better one. And she played and sang, he doeth all things well. Then rising, she closed the instrument, saying, Now Mammy, let me see the picture. We then drew aside the curtain, and Elsie, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, stood for many minutes, gazing upon a life-sized and speaking portrait of her father. Papa, papa, she sobbed, My own darling precious papa, oh, could you but know how dearly your little Elsie loves you? Don't now, darling, don't take on so dreadful, it just breaks your old Mammy's heart to see her child so stressed, Chloe said, passing her arm around the little girl's waist, and laying her head on her bosom. Oh, Mammy, will he ever smile on me again? Shall I ever live with him in this dear home? sobbed the poor child. Oh, it is hard, hard to give it all up, to have Papa always displeased with me. Oh, Mammy, there is such a weary aching at my heart. Is it never to be satisfied? My poor poor child, my poor little pet, I sure it'll all come right by and by, replied Chloe soothingly, as soon as emotion would suffer her to speak. You know it is, de Lord, that sends all her afflictions, and you must member, de pretty words, you is just a singing. He doeth all things well. He says, What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter. De great God can change your father's heart, and climb him to specter principles, and I do believe he will do it. Elsie sobbed out her dread of the boarding school, with its loneliness, and its temptations. Now, don't you go for to be afraid of all that, darlin', replied her nurse. Has you forgotten how it says in de Goodbook, Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world? And if he is with you, who can hurt you? Just nobody. A text came to Elsie's mind. The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms. And lifting her head, she dashed away her tears. No, she said, I will not be afraid. At least I will try not to be. The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid? But, oh, mammy, I must go now, and I feel as if I were saying farewell to you, and the sweet home for ever. As if I were never to live in these pretty rooms. Never to see them again. Hush, hush, darlin', taint never best to borrow trouble, and I sure you'll come back one of these days, replied Chloe, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, though her heart ached as she looked into the soft, hazel eyes, all dimmed with tears, and to mark how thin and pale the dear little face had grown. Elsie was passing around the room again, taking a farewell look at each picture and piece of furniture. Then she stood a moment, gazing out over the lawn, to the rolling sea beyond. She was murmuring something to herself, and Chloe started as her ear faintly caught the words. In my father's house are many mansions. Mammy, said the child, suddenly turning and taking her hand. Look yonder, and she pointed with her finger. Do you see that beautiful tall tree that casts such a thick shade? I want to be buried right there, where Papa can see my grave when he sits in here, and think that I am with him yet. When I am gone, Mammy, you must tell him that I told you this. It would be so pleasant to be there. It is such a lovely spot, and the distant murmur of the sea seems like a lullaby to sing the weary one to rest. She added dreamily, I would like to lie down there now. Why, what you talking about, Miss Elsie? My child mustn't say such things, exclaimed Chloe, and great alarm. Your old Mammy expects to die long enough for you do. She's very young, and taint worth while to begin talking about dying yet. Elsie smiled sadly. But you know Mammy, she said, that death often comes to the youngest. Mama died young, and so may I. I am afraid it isn't right, but sometimes I am so sad and weary, that I cannot help longing very much to die, and go to be with her and with Jesus, for they would always love me, and I should never be lonely any more. Oh Mammy, Mammy, must we part? Shall I ever see you again? She cried, throwing herself into her nurse's arms. God bless and keep you, darlin', Chloe said, folding her to her heart. Do good Lord, take care of my precious lamb, and bring her back to her old Mammy again, for long. Elsie shot herself into her own room on her return to Rosalinds, and was not seen again that day by anyone but her maid. Still just at dusk Adelaide wrapped softly at her door. Elsie's voice, in a low, tremulous tone, answered, come in, and Adelaide entered. The little girl was just in the act of closing her writing-desk, and her aunt thought she had been weeping, but the light was so uncertain that she might have been mistaken. "'My poor darling,' she said, in low, pitiful accents, as passing her arm around the child's waist, she drew her down to a seat beside herself upon the sofa. Elsie did not speak, but dropping her head upon Adelaide's shoulder burst into tears. "'My poor child, don't cry so. Better days will come,' said her aunt soothingly, running her fingers through Elsie's soft curls. "'I know what has been the trial of today,' she continued, still using the same gentle, caressing tone. For I, too, had a letter from your papa, in which he told me what he had said to you. "'You have been to see your new home. I have seen it several times, and think it very lovely. And some day I hope and expect you and your papa will be very happy there.' Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. "'Not now, I know,' said Adelaide, for I have no need to ask what your decision has been. But I am hoping and praying that God may work the same change in your father's views and feelings, which has been lately wrought in mine, and then he will love you all the better for your steadfast determination to obey God rather than man.' "'Oh, aunt Adelaide, will it ever be, sighed the poor child? The time seems so very long. It is so dreadful to live without my papa's love.' "'He does love you, Elsie, and I really think he suffers nearly as much as you do. But he thinks he is right in what he requires of you. And he is so very determined and so anxious to make a gay, fashionable woman of you. Cure you of those absurd, puritanical notions, as he expresses it, that I fear he will never relent until his heart is changed. But God is able to do that.' "'Oh, aunt Adelaide,' said the little girl, mournfully, pray for me, that I may be enabled to wait patiently until that time comes, and never permitted to indulge rebellious feelings towards papa.' "'Adelaide kissed her softly. Poor child,' she whispered, "'it is a hard trial. But try, dearest, to remember who sends it.' She was silent a moment. Then said, reluctantly, "' Elsie, your papa has entrusted me with a message to you, which I was to deliver after your visit to the Oaks, unless you had then come to the Resolution to comply with his wishes, or rather his commands.' She paused, and Elsie trembling, and almost holding her breath, asked fearfully, "'What is it, aunt Adelaide?' "'Poor darling,' murmured Adelaide, clasping the little form more closely, and pressing her lips to the fair brow. "'I wish I could save you from it. He says that if you continue, obdurate, he has quite determined to send you to a convent to be educated.' As Adelaide made this announcement, she pitied the child from the bottom of her heart, for she knew that much of Elsie's reading had been on the subject of papery and papal institutions, that she had poured over histories of the terrible tortures of the Inquisition, and stories of martyrs and captive nuns, until she had imbibed an intense horror and dread of everything connected with that form of error and superstition. Yet knowing all this, Adelaide was hardly prepared for the effect of her communication. "'Oh, aunt Adelaide,' almost shrieked the little girl, throwing her arms around her aunt's neck, and clinging to her, as if in mortal terror, "'Save me, save me. Oh, tell Papa I would rather he would kill me at once, than send me to such a place.' Then she wept and sobbed, and wrung her hands in such grief and terror, that Adelaide grew absolutely frightened. "'They will not dare to hurt you, Elsie,' she hastened to say. "'Oh, they will, they will, they will try to make me go to mass, and pray to the virgin, and bow to the crucifixes. And when I refuse, they will put me in a dungeon and torture me.' "'Oh, no, child,' replied Adelaide soothingly, "'They will not dare to do so to you, because you will not be a nun, but only a boarder, and your Papa would be sure to find it all out.' "'No, no,' sobbed the little girl, "'they will hide me from Papa when he comes, and tell him that I want to take the veil, and refuse to see him, or else they will say that I am dead and buried. "'Oh, aunt Adelaide, beg him not to put me there. I shall go crazy. I feel as if I were going crazy now.' And she put her hand to her head. "'Poor, poor child,' said Adelaide, weeping, "'I wish it was in my power to help you. I would once have advised you to submit to all your father's requires. I cannot do that now, but I will return some of your lessons to me. It is God, my poor darling, who sends you this trial, and he will give you strength according to your day. He will be with you wherever you are, even should it be in a convent. For you know, he says, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. And not a hair of your head shall fall to the ground without your father.' "'Yes, I know, I know,' Elsie answered, again pressing her hands to her head. But I cannot think, and everything seems so dreadful.' Adelaide was much alarmed, for Elsie looked quite wild for a moment. But after staying with her for a considerable time, saying all she could to soothe and comfort her, and reminding her that it would be some weeks ere the plan could be carried out, and that in that time something might occur to change her father's mind, she left her, though still and deep distressed, apparently calm and composed. In vain she seeks to close her weary eyes, those eyes still swim incessantly in tears. Hope in her cheerless bosom fading dies, distracted by a thousand cruel fears, while banished from his love forever she appears. Mrs. Tige Psyche When thus alone the little Elsie fell upon her knees, weeping and sobbing. "'Oh,' she groaned, "'I cannot, cannot bear it.' Then she thought of the agony in the garden, and that bitter cry, "'Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, followed by the submissive prayer. If this cup may not pass from me, except I drink it, thy will not mine be done.' She opened her Bible, and dread of his sufferings, so meekly and patiently born, without a single murmur or complaint, born by one who was free from all stain of sin, born not for himself, but for others, sufferings to which her own were not for a moment to be compared. And then she prayed that she might bear the image of Jesus, that like him she might be enabled to yield a perfect submission to her heavenly Father's will, and to endure with patience and meekness whatever trial he might see fit to appoint her. Elsie was far from well, and for many long hours after she had sought her pillow, she lay tossing restlessly from side to side in mental and physical pain, her temples throbbing and her heart aching with its intense longing for the love that now seemed farther from her than ever. And thought, troubled, anxious, distracted thought, was busy in her brain. All the stories of martyrs and captive nuns which she had ever read, all the descriptions of the horrible tortures inflicted by Rome upon her wretched victims, came vividly to her recollection, and when at length she fell asleep, it was but to wake again, trembling with fright from a dream that she was in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Then again she slept, but only to dream of new horrors which seemed terribly real even when she awoke, and thus between sleeping and waking the hours dragged slowly along until at last the day dawned, after what had seemed to the little girl the longest night she had ever known. Her maid came in at the usual hour, and was surprised and alarmed to find her young mistress still in bed, with cheeks burning and eyes sparkling with fever, and talking in a wild, incoherent manner. Rushing out of the room, Fanny hastened in search of Miss Adelaide, who she had long since discovered was the only one of the family that cared for Elsie, and in a few moments the young aunt was standing at the bedside, looking with tearful eyes at the little sufferer. Oh, Miss Adelaide, whispered the girl, I think she's very sick, shan't we send for the doctor? Yes, tell Jim to go for him immediately, and to stop on his way back, and tell Aunt Chloe that she is wanted here just as soon as she can possibly come, replied Adelaide quickly, and then she set herself to work, to make the child as comfortable as possible, remaining beside her until Chloe came to take her place, which was in less than an hour after she had received the summons, and just as the breakfast bell rang at Rosalind's. So Elsie has taken a fever, and there is no knowing what it is, or whether it is contagious or not, remarked Mrs. Dinsmore. It is really fortunate that we were just going away for our summer trip. I shall take all the children now, and we will start this very day. What a good thing it is that Elsie has kept her rum so constantly of late. Can you pack in time for the afternoon train, Adelaide? I shall not go now, Mama, replied Adelaide quietly. Why not, asked her mother, in a tone of surprise? Because I prefer to stay with Elsie. What absurd folly, exclaimed Mrs. Dinsmore, Aunt Chloe will do everything that is necessary, and you don't know to what infection you may be exposing yourself. I don't think there is any danger, Mama, and if Elsie should be very ill, Aunt Chloe will need assistance, and I am not willing to leave Horace's child to the care of servants. Elsie has been in great comfort to me and my sorrow, she added, with tears in her eyes, and I will not forsake her now. And you know, Mama, it is no self-denial, for I have no heart for gaiety. I would much rather stay. Certainly, stay a few like, answered her father, speaking for the first time. I do not imagine that Elsie's disease is contagious. She has doubtless worried herself sick, and it would not look well to the neighbors, for us all to run away, and leave the child so ill. Ah, there is the doctor, and we will have his opinion, he exclaimed. As through the half-open door he caught a glimpse of the family physician descending the stairs. Ask him into breakfast-pump. Good morning, doctor. How do you find your patient? I think her quite a sick child, sir, though of the precise nature of her disease. I am not yet able to form a decided opinion, replied the physician, accepting the offered seat at the table. Is it anything contagious? inquired Mrs. Dinsmore anxiously. I cannot yet say certainly, madam, but I think not. Shall we send for Horace? That is, would you advise it? asked Mr. Dinsmore, hesitatingly. Oh, no, was the reply. Not until we have had more time to judge, whether she is likely to be very ill. It may prove but a slight attack. I shall write this very day, was Adelaide's mental resolve, though she said nothing. Mrs. Dinsmore hurried her preparations, and the middle of the afternoon found Adelaide and Elsie sole occupants of the house, with the exception of the servants. Adelaide watched the carriage as it rolled away, and then, with feelings of sadness and desolation, and a mind filled with anxious forebodings, returned to her station at Elsie's bedside. The child was tossing about, moaning and talking incoherently, and Adelaide sighed deeply at the thought that this was perhaps but the beginning of a long and serious illness, while she was painfully conscious of her own inexperience and want of skill in nursing. Oh, she exclaimed half-aloud, if I only had some kind experienced friend to advise and assist me. What a blessed relief it would be. There was a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel walk below, and hastily turning to Chloe, she said, go down and tell them I must be excused. I cannot see visitors while my little niece is so very ill. Chloe went, but returned almost immediately, followed by Mrs. Travella. With a half-smothered exclamation of delight, Adelaide threw herself into the kind motherly arms extended to receive her, and burst into tears. Mrs. Travella let them have their way for a moment, while she stroked her hair caressingly, and murmured a few soothing words. Then she said softly, Edward called at the gate this morning, and learned all about it, and I knew you were but young, and would feel lonely and anxious, and I loved the dear child as if she were my own, and so I have come to stay and help you nurse her, if you will let me. At you, dear Mrs. Travella, I can never repay your kindness. Mrs. Travella only smiled, and pressed the hand she held, and then quietly laying aside her bonnet and shawl, took up her post at the bedside, with the air of one quite at home, and intending to be useful. It is such an inexpressible relief to see you sitting there, whispered Adelaide. You don't know what a load you have taken off my mind. But before Mrs. Travella could reply, Elsie started up in the bed, with a wild outcry. Oh, don't, Papa, don't send me there. They will kill me, they will torture me. Oh, let me stay at home with you, and I will be very good." Mrs. Travella spoke soothingly to her, and persuaded her to lie down again. Elsie looked at her quite rationally, and holding out her hand, with a faint smile, said, Thank you, Mrs. Travella, you are very kind to come to see me. I am very sick, my head hurts me so. And she put her hand up to it, while again her eyes rolled wildly, and she shrieked out. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, save me, save me, don't let them take me away to that dreadful place. Must I go now, to-day? she asked in piteous accents. Oh, I don't want to go. And she clung shuttering to her aunt, who was bending over her, with eyes swimming in tears. No, darling, no, she said, no one shall take you away, nobody shall hurt you. Then in answer to Mrs. Travella's inquiring look, she explained, speaking in an undertone. He had decided to place her in a convent to complete her education. I told her of it last night, she added mournfully, as he requested, and I very much fear that the fright and terror she suffered on that account have helped to bring on this attack. Poor, dear, precious lamb, sighed Chloe, who stood at the foot of the bed, gazing sadly at her nursing, and wiping away, tear after tear, as they chased each other down her sable cheek. I wished Massa Horace could see her now. I sure he never say such cruel things no more. He ought surely to be here. You have sent for him, Adelaide, Mrs. Travella said inquiringly. She is very ill, and it is of great importance that her mind should be set at rest. If indeed it can be done at present. I wrote this morning, Adelaide said, and I shall write every day until he comes. Elsie caught the words, and turning with an eager look to her aunt, she again spoke quite rationally. Are you writing to Papa, Aunt Adelaide? she asked. Oh, beg him to come home soon, very soon. Tell him I want to see him once more. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, he will kiss me when I am dying, won't he? Oh, say you think he will. I am sure of it, darling, replied Adelaide soothingly, as she bent down and kissed the little feverish cheek. But we are not going to let you die yet. But will you ask Papa, will you beg him to come? pleaded the little voice, still more eagerly. I will, I have, darling, replied the aunt, and I doubt not that he will start for home immediately on receiving my letter. Day after day the fever raged in Elsie's veins, and when at length it was subdued, it left her very weak indeed. But the doctor pronounced her free from disease, and said she only needed good nursing and nutritious diet to restore her to health. And Mrs. Travella and Chloe, who had watched day and night by her couch with intense anxiety, wept for joy and thankfulness that their precious one was yet spared to them. But alas, their hopes faded again, as day after day the little girl lay on her bed, weak and languid, making no progress toward recovery, but rather losing strength. The doctor shook his head with a disappointed air, and drawing Adelaide aside, said, I cannot understand it, Miss Dinsmore. Has she any mental trouble? She seems to me like one who has some weight of care or sorrow pressing upon her, and sapping the very springs of life. She appears to have no desire to recover. She needs something to rouse her, and revive her love of life. Is there anything on her mind? If so, it must be removed, or she will certainly die. She is very anxious to see her father, said Adelaide weeping. Oh, how I wish he would come. I cannot imagine what keeps him. I have written again and again. I wish he was here, indeed, replied the doctor, with a look of great anxiety. Miss Adelaide, he suddenly exclaimed, if she were ten years older, I should say she was dying of a broken heart. But she is so young the idea is absurd. You are right, doctor, it is nothing but that. Oh, how I wish Horace would come, cried Adelaide, walking up and down the room, and bringing her hands. Do you notice, doctor, she asked, stopping before him, how she watches the opening of the door, and starts and trembles at every sound. It is killing her, for she is too weak to bear it. Oh, if Horace would only come and set her mind at rest, he has been displeased with her, and threatened to send her to a convent, of which she has a great horror and dread. And she idolizes him, and so his anger and his threats have had this sad effect upon her, poor child. Right again, Miss Adelaide, and tell him that her life depends upon his speedy return, and a reconciliation with him. If he would not lose her, he must at once relieve her of every fear and anxiety, said the physician, taking up his hat. That is the medicine she needs, and the only one that will do her much good. Good morning, I will be in again at noon. And Adelaide, scarcely waiting to see him off, rushed away to her room, to write to her brother exactly what he had told her, beseeching him, if he had any love for his child, to return immediately. The paper was all blistered with her tears, for they fell so fast, it was with difficulty she could see to write. She has spoken from the first, as though it were a settled thing that the sickness was to be her last, and now a great, terrible dread is coming over me that she is right. Oh, Horace, will you not come and save her? Thus Adelaide closed her note, then sealing and dispatching it, she returned to the bedside of her little niece. Elsie lay quietly, with her eyes closed, but there was an expression of pain upon her features. Mrs. Travella sat beside her, holding one little hand in hers, and gazing with tearful eyes, upon the little wan face she had learned to love so well. Presently those beautiful eyes unclosed, and turned upon her with an expression of anguish that touched her to the very heart. What is it, darling? Are you in pain? She asked, leaning over her, and speaking in tones of the tenderest solicitude. Oh, Mrs. Travella, moaned the little girl. My sins, my sins, they are so many, so black, without holiness no man shall see the Lord. God says it, and I, I am not holy, I am vile. Oh, so vile, so sinful, shall I ever see his face? How can I dare to venture into his presence? She spoke slowly, gaspingly, her voice sometimes sinking almost to a whisper, so that, but for the deathlike stillness of the room, her words would scarcely have been audible. Mrs. Travella's tears were falling very fast, and it was a moment ere she could command her voice to reply. My precious, precious child, she said, he is able to save to the uttermost the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. He will wash you in that precious fountain opened for sin, and for all uncleanness. He will clothe you with the robe of his own righteousness, and present you faultless before the throne of God, without spot or wrinkle, or any such thing. He has said it, and shall it not come to pass, my darling? Yes, dear child, I am confident of this very thing, that he who has begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ. Oh, yes, he will, I know he will. Precious Jesus, my Savior, murmured the little one, a smile of heavenly peace and joy overspreading her features, and closing her eyes, she seemed to sleep. While Adelaide, unable longer to control her feelings, stole softly from the room, to seek a place where she might weep without restraint. An hour later Adelaide sat alone by the bedside, Mrs. Travella having found it necessary to return to Ion for a few hours, while Chloe had gone down to the kitchen to see to the preparation of some new delicacy, with which she hoped to tempt Elsie's failing appetite. Adelaide had been sitting for some moments, gazing sadly at the little pale, thin face, so fair, so sad, yet so full of meekness and resignation. Her eyes filled as she looked, and thought of all that they feared. Elsie, darling, precious little one, she murmured, in low tremulous tones, as she lent over the child in tender solicitude. Dear Aunt Adelaide, how kind you are to me, said the little girl, opening her eyes and looking up lovingly into her aunt's face. There was a sound of carriage-wheels. Is it my papa, asked Elsie, starting and trembling. Adelaide sprang to the window. No, it was only a kind neighbor, come to inquire how the invalid was. A look of keen disappointment passed over the expressive countenance of the little girl. The white lids drooped over the soft eyes, and large tears stole from beneath the long dark lashes, and rolled silently down her cheeks. He will not come in time, she whispered, as of talking to herself. Oh, papa, I want to hear you say you forgive all my naughtiness. I want one kiss before I go. Oh, take me in your arms, papa, and press me to your heart, and say you love me yet. Adelaide could bear it no longer. The mournful pleading tones went to her very heart. Dear, dear, child, she cried, bending over her with streaming eyes. He does love you. I know it. You are the very idol of his heart, and you must not die. Oh, darling, live for his sake and for mine. He will soon be here, and then it will be all right. He will be so thankful that he has not lost you, that he will never allow you to be separated from him again. No, oh no, he said he did not love a rebellious child, she sapped. He said he would never kiss me again until I submit. And you know I cannot do that. And oh, Aunt Adelaide, he never breaks his word. Oh, Horace, Horace, will you never come? Will you let her die so young, so sweet, so fair? wept Adelaide, wringing her hands. But Elsie was speaking again, and she controlled herself to listen. Aunt Adelaide, she murmured, in low, feeble tones, I am too weak to hold a pen. Will you write something for me? I will, darling. I will do anything I can for you, she replied. Then turning to the maid, who had just entered the room. Fanny, she said, bring Miss Elsie's writing desk here, and set it close to the bedside. Now you may take that waiter downstairs, and you need not come in again until I ring for you. Elsie had started, and turned her head on the opening of the door, as she invariably did. Looking longingly, eagerly toward it, then turned away again, with a sigh of disappointment. Poor Papa, poor dear Papa, she murmured to herself. He will be so lonely without his little daughter. My heart aches for you, my own Papa. I am quite ready now, Elsie dear. What do you wish me to write? asked her aunt. Aunt Adelaide, said the little girl, looking earnestly at her. Do you know how much Mama was worth? How much money I would have if I lived to grow up? No dear, she replied, much surprised at the question. For even in health, Elsie had never seemed to care for riches. I cannot say exactly, but I know it is a great many thousands. And it will all be Papa's when I am gone, I suppose. I am glad of that, but I would like to give some of it away, if I might. I know I have no right, because I am so young. Papa has told me that several times. But I think he will like to do what I wish with a part of it. Don't you think so too, Aunt Adelaide? Adelaide nodded ascent. She dared not trust herself to speak, for she began to comprehend that it was neither more nor less than the last will and testament of her little niece, which she was requesting her to write. Well then, Aunt Adelaide, said the feeble little voice, please write down that I want my dear Papa to support one missionary to the heathen out of my money. Now say that I know he will take care of my poor old Mammy as long as she lives. And I hope that, for his little Elsie's sake, he will be very, very kind to her, and give her everything she wants. And I want him to do something for Mrs. Murray too. Mama loved her, and so do I, for she was very kind to me always, and taught me about Jesus, and so I want Papa to give her a certain sum every year, enough to keep her quite comfortable, for she is getting old, and I am afraid she is very poor. I have written all that Elsie, is there anything more? asked Adelaide, scarcely able to command her voice. Yes, if you please, replied the little girl, and she went on to name every member of the family, from her grandfather down, servants included, setting apart some little gift for each, most of them things already in her possession, though some few were to be bought, if her Papa was willing. Even Miss Day was not forgotten, and to her Elsie bequeathed a valuable ring. To her Aunt Adelaide she gave her Papa's miniature, a lock of her own hair, and a small testament. Are you really willing to part with your Papa's picture, Elsie dear, asked Adelaide, I thought you valued it very highly. I cannot take it with me, dear Aunt Adelaide, was the quiet reply, and he will not want it himself, and I believe you love him better than anyone else. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, comfort my poor Papa when I am gone, and he is left all alone. She exclaimed, the big tears chasing each other down her cheeks. It is so sad to be alone, with nobody to love you. My poor, poor Papa, I am all he has. You have given nothing to him, said Adelaide, wiping away her tears, and glancing over what she had just written. Yes, there is a little packet in my desk directed to him. Please give him that, and my dear, precious little Bible. I can't part with it yet, but when I am gone. She then mentioned that she had pointed out to her nurse the spot where she wished to be buried, and added that she did not want any monument, but just a plain white stone with her name and age, and a text of scripture. That is all, and thank you very much, dear Auntie, she said, when Adelaide had finished writing down her directions. Now, please put the pen in my fingers and hold the paper here, and I think I can sign my name. She did so quite legibly, although her hand trembled with weakness, and then at her request the paper was folded, sealed, and placed in her desk, to be given after her death to her father, along with the packet. It was evidently a great relief to Elsie to get these things off her mind. Yet talking so long had exhausted all her little strength, and Adelaide much alarmed at the deathlike pallor of her countenance, and the sinking of her voice, now insisted that she should lie quiet and try to sleep. Elsie made an effort to obey, but her fever was returning, and she was growing very restless again. I cannot, Aunt Adelaide, she said at length, and I want to tell you a little more to say to Papa, for I may not be able again. I am afraid he will not come until I am gone, and he will be so sorry, my poor, poor Papa. Tell him that I loved him to the very last, that I longed to ask him to forgive me for all the naughty, rebellious feelings I have ever had towards him. Twice, since he has been displeased with me, I have rebelled in my heart. Since when he refused to give me Miss Allison's letter, and again when he sent Mammy away. It was only for a few moments each time. But it was very wicked, and I am very sorry. Sobs choked her utterance. Poor darling, said Adelaide, crying bitterly, I don't think an angel could have borne it better, and I know he will reproach himself for his cruelty to you. Oh, Aunt Adelaide, don't say that. Don't let him reproach himself, but say all you can to comfort him. I am his child, he had a right, and he only wanted to make me good, and I needed it all, or God would not have permitted it. Oh, Elsie, darling, I cannot give you up. You must not die, sobbed Adelaide, bending over her, her tears falling fast on Elsie's bright curls. It is so hard to see you die so young, and with so much to live for. It is very sweet to go home so soon, murmured the soft, low voice of the little one, so sweet to go and live with Jesus, and be free from sin forever. Adelaide made no reply, and for a moment her bitter sobbing was the only sound that broke the stillness of the rum. Don't cry so, dear Auntie, Elsie said faintly. I am very happy. Auntie, I want to see my father. She added something incoherently, and Adelaide perceived, with excessive alarm, that her mind was again beginning to wander. She hastily summoned a servant, and dispatched a message to the physician, urging him to come immediately, as there was an alarming change in his patient. Never in all her life had Adelaide suffered such anxiety and distress as during the next half-hour, which she and the faithful Chloe spent by the bedside, watching the restless tossings of the little sufferer, whose fever and delirium seemed to increase every moment. Jim had not been able to find the doctor, and Mrs. Travella was staying away longer than she had intended. But at length she came, and though evidently grieved and concerned at the change in Elsie, her quiet, collected manner calmed and soothed Adelaide. Oh, Mrs. Travella, she whispered, do you think she will die? We will not give up hope yet, my dear, replied the old lady, trying to speak cheerfully. But my greatest comfort, just at present, is the sure knowledge that she is prepared for any event. No one can doubt that she is a lamb of the Saviour's fold, and if he is about to gather her into his bosom. She paused, overcome by emotion, then added, in a tremulous tone. It will be a sad thing to us, no doubt, but to her, dear little one, a blessed, blessed change. I cannot bear the thought, sobbed Adelaide, but I have scarcely any hope now, because—and then she told Mrs. Travella what they had been doing in her absence. Don't let that discourage you, my dear, replied her friend soothingly. I have no faith in precediments, and while there is life there is hope. Dr. Barton the physician came in at that moment, looked at his young patient, felt her pulse, and shook his head sorrowfully. Adelaide watched his face with the deepest anxiety. He passed his hand over Elsie's beautiful curls. It seems a sad pity, he remarked, in a low tone to her aunt, but they will have to be sacrificed. They must be cut off immediately, and her head shaved. Adelaide shuddered and trembled. Is there any hope, doctor? She faltered, almost under her breath. There is life yet, Miss Adelaide, he said, and we must use all the means within our reach. But I wish her father was here. Have you heard nothing yet? No, nothing, nothing, she answered, in a tone of keen distress, then hastily left the room to give the necessary orders for carrying out the doctor's directions. No, no, you must not. Papa will not allow it. He will be very angry. He will punish me if you cut off my curls, and Elsie's little hand was raised in a feeble attempt to push away the remorseless scissors that were suffering the bright locks from her head. No, darling, he will not be displeased, because it is quite necessary to make you well, said Mrs. Travella, in her gentle soothing tones, and your papa would bid us do it if he were here. No, no, don't cut it off. I will not. I cannot be a nun. Oh, papa, save me, save me, she shrieked. Dear child, you are safe at home, with none but friends around you. It was Mrs. Travella's gentle voice again, and for a moment the child seemed calmed. But only for a moment another wild fancy possessed her brain, and she cried out wildly. Don't! Don't! Take it away! I will not bow down to images. No, no, I will not. Again with a bitter, wailing cry that went to the heart of everyone who heard it. Oh, papa, don't be angry. I will be good. Oh, I am all alone. Nobody to love me. Elsie, darling, we are all here, and we love you dearly, dearly, said Adelaide, in quivering tones, while her scalding tears fell like rain upon the little hand she had taken in hers. My papa, I want my papa, but he said he would never kiss me till I submit. The tone was low and plaintive, and the large, mournful eyes were fixed upon Adelaide's face. Then suddenly her gaze was directed upward, a bright smile overspread her features, and she exclaimed in joyous accents, Yes, mama, yes, I am coming, I will go with you. Adelaide turned away, and went weeping from the room, unable to bear any more. Oh, Horace, Horace, what have you done? she sobbed, as she walked up and down the hall, wringing her hands. The doctor came out, but she was too much absorbed in her grief to notice him. He went to her, however, and took her hand. Miss Adelaide, he said kindly, it is true your little niece is very ill, but we will not give up all hope yet. It is possible her father's presence may do something, and surely he will be here, ere long, but try to calm yourself, my dear young lady, and hope for the best, or I fear I shall have another patient on my hands. I will stay with the little girl myself tonight, and I wish I could prevail upon you to lie down and to take some rest, for I see you need it sadly. Have you had your tea? Adelaide shook her head. I could not eat, she said sadly. You ought at least to try, it would do you good, he urged. No, you will not, well then you will lie down, indeed you must, you will certainly be ill. Adelaide looked the question she dared not ask. No, he said, there's no immediate danger, and if there should be any important change I will call you. And reassured on that point, she yielded to his persuasions, and went to bed. CHAPTER XI