The Project Gutenberg EBook of Holidays at Roselands, by Martha Finley

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Title: Holidays at Roselands

Author: Martha Finley

Release Date: December 6, 2004 [EBook #14280]

Language: English

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                          HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS

                       A SEQUEL TO ELSIE DINSMORE

                            BY MARTHA FINLEY

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by M.W. DODD,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.

Copyright, 1898, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.




"Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower."

--Burns.




Elsie's Holidays at Roselands.




CHAPTER I.

"Oh Truth,
Thou art, whilst tenant in a noble breast,
A crown of crystal in an iv'ry chest."


Elsie felt in better spirits in the morning; her sleep had refreshed her,
and she arose with a stronger confidence in the love of both her earthly
and her heavenly Father.

She found her papa ready, and waiting for her. He took her in his arms
and kissed her tenderly. "My precious little daughter," he said, "papa is
very glad to see you looking so bright and cheerful this morning. I think
something was wrong with my little girl last night. Why did she not come
to papa with her trouble?"

"_Why_ did you think I was in trouble, papa?" she asked, hiding her face
on his breast.

"How could I think otherwise, when my little girl did not come to bid me
good night, though she had not seen me since dinner; and when I went to
give her a good-night kiss I found her pillow wet, and a tear on her
cheek?"

"_Did_ you come, papa?" she asked, looking up in glad surprise.

"I did. Now tell me what troubled you, my own one?"

"I am afraid you will be angry with me, papa," she said, almost under her
breath.

"Not half so angry as if you refuse to give me your confidence. I would
be glad to know that my little daughter had not a single thought or
feeling concealed from me."

He paused a moment, looking down at the little blushing face, half hidden
on his breast, then went on:

"Elsie, daughter, you are more precious to me than aught else in the
wide world, and you need not fear that any other can ever take your place
in my heart, or that I will make any connection that would render you
unhappy. I want no one to love but my little girl; and you must not let
the gossip of the servants disturb you."

Elsie looked up in unfeigned astonishment.

"Papa! you seem to know everything about me. Can you read my thoughts?"

"_Almost_, when I can see your face," he answered, smiling at her puzzled
look. "I cannot quite, though; but I can put things together and make a
pretty good guess, sometimes."

She lay still on his breast for a moment; then, raising her eyes timidly
to his face again, she said in a half-hesitating way, "I am afraid it is
very naughty in me, papa, but I can't help thinking that Miss Stevens
is very disagreeable. I felt so that very first day, and I did not want
to take a present from her, because it didn't seem exactly right when I
didn't like her, but I couldn't refuse--she wouldn't let me--and I have
tried to like her since, but I can't."

"Well, darling, I don't think I am just the proper person to reprove you
for _that_," he replied, trying to look grave, "for I am afraid I am as
naughty as you are. But we won't talk any more about her. See what I have
for you this morning."

He pointed to the table, where lay a pile of prettily bound books, which
Elsie had not noticed until this moment. They were Abbot's works. Elsie
had read several of his historical tales, and liked them very much; and
her father could hardly have given a more acceptable present.

"I was sorry for your disappointment yesterday," he said, "but I hope
these will make up for it, and they will give you a great deal of useful
information, as well as amusement; while it could only be an injury
to you to read that trashy book."

Elsie was turning over the books with eager delight.

"_Dear_ papa, you are so kind and good to me," she said, laying them down
to put her arms around his neck and kiss him. "I like these books very
much, and I don't at all care to read that other one since you have told
me you do not approve of it."

"That is my own darling child," said he, returning her caress, "your
ready obedience deserved a reward. Now put on your hat, and we will take
our walk."

Mr. Travilla joined them in the avenue, and his kind heart rejoiced to
see how the clouds of care and sorrow had all passed away from his little
friend's face, leaving it bright and beaming, as usual. Her father had
one hand, and Mr. Travilla soon possessed himself of the other.

"I don't altogether like these company-days, when you have to be banished
from the table, little Elsie," he remarked. "I cannot half enjoy my
breakfast without your bright face to look at."

"I don't like them either, Mr. Travilla, because I see so little of papa.
I haven't had a ride with him since the company came."

"You shall have one this afternoon, if nothing happens," said her father
quickly. "What do you say, Travilla, to a ride on horseback with the four
young ladies you took charge of yesterday, and myself?"

"Bravo! I shall be delighted to be of the party, if the ladies don't
object; eh! Elsie, what do you think?" with a questioning look down into
her glad face, "will they want me?"

"You needn't be a bit afraid, Mr. Travilla," laughed the little girl; "I
like you next to papa, and I believe Lucy and the rest like you better."

"Oh! take care, Elsie; are you not afraid of hurting his feelings?"

"No danger, as long as _she_ puts me first," Mr. Dinsmore said, bestowing
a smile and loving glance on her.

Caroline Howard was in Elsie's room, waiting to show her bracelet, which
had just been handed to her by her maid; Pomp having brought it from the
city late the night before.

"Oh! Elsie, I am so glad you have come at last. I have been waiting for
half an hour, I should think, to show you these," she said, as Elsie came
in from her walk. "But how bright and merry you look; so different from
last night! what ailed you then?"

"Never mind," replied Elsie, taking the bracelet from her hand, and
examining it. "Oh! this is _very_ pretty, Carry! the clasp is so
beautiful, and they have braided the hair so nicely."

"Yes, I'm sure mamma will like it. But now that Christmas is gone, I
think I will keep it for a New Year's gift. Wouldn't you, Elsie?"

"Yes, perhaps--but I want to tell you, Carry, what papa says. He and Mr.
Travilla are going to take you, and Lucy, and Mary, and me, riding on
horseback this afternoon. Don't you think it will be pleasant?"

"Oh, it will be _grand_!" exclaimed Carry. "Elsie, I think now that your
papa is very kind; and do you know I like him very much, indeed; quite as
well as I do Mr. Travilla, and I always liked _him_--he's so pleasant,
and so funny, too, sometimes. But I must go and show my bracelet to Lucy.
Hark! no, there's the bell, and I'll just leave it here until after
breakfast."

Elsie opened a drawer and laid it carefully in, and they ran off to the
nursery.

"Elsie," said her father, when they had finished the morning lessons,
"there is to be a children's party to-night, at Mr. Carleton's, and I
have an invitation for you. Would you like to go?"

"Do you wish me to go, papa?" she asked.

"Not unless _you_ wish to do so, daughter," he said kindly. "I cannot go
with you, as there are to be none but little people, and I never feel
altogether comfortable in seeing my darling go from home without me; and
you will, no doubt, be very late in returning and getting to bed, and I
fear will feel badly to-morrow in consequence; but this once, at least,
you shall just please yourself. All your little guests are going, and it
would be dull and lonesome for you at home, I am afraid."

Elsie thought a moment.

"Dear papa, you are very kind," she said, "but if you please, I would
much rather have you decide for me, because I am only a silly little
girl, and you are so much older and wiser."

He smiled, and stroked her hair softly, but said nothing.

"Are you going to stay at home, papa?" she asked presently.

"Yes, daughter, I expect to spend the evening either in this room or the
library, as I have letters to write."

"Oh, then, papa, please let me stay with you! I would like it _much_
better than going to the party; will you, papa? please say yes."

"But you know I cannot talk to you, or let you talk; so that it will be
very dull," he said, pushing back the curls from the fair forehead, and
smiling down into the eager little face.

"Oh! but if you will only let me sit beside you and read one of my new
books, I shall be quite contented, and sit as quiet as a little mouse,
and not say one word without leave. Mayn't I, papa?"

"I said you should do as you pleased, darling, and I always love to have
my pet near me."

"Oh, then I shall stay!" she cried, clapping her hands.

Then, with a happy little sigh, "It will be so nice," she said, "to have
one of our quiet evenings again." And she knew, by her father's gratified
look, that she had decided as he would have had her.

A servant put his head in at the door.

"Massa Horace, dere's a gen'leman in de library axin for to see you."

"Very well, Jim, tell him I will be there in a moment. Elsie, dear, put
away your books, and go down to your little friends."

"Yes, papa, I will," she replied, as he went out and left her.

"How kind papa is to me, and how I do love him!" she murmured to herself
as she placed the books carefully in the drawer where they belonged.

She found Lucy and Mary busily engaged in dressing a doll, and Carry
deeply interested in a book. But several of the little ones were looking
quite disconsolate.

"Oh, Elsie, do come and play with us," said Flora; "Enna won't play
anything we like. We've been playing keeping house, but Enna will be
mother all the time, and she scolds and whips us so much that we are all
tired of it."

"Well, what shall we play?" asked Elsie, good-naturedly. "Will you build
houses?"

"No, I'm tired of that, because Enna takes all the blocks," said another
little girl. "She isn't at all polite to visitors, is she, Flora?"

"No," replied Flora, "and I don't _ever_ mean to come to see her again."

"I don't care," retorted Enna, angrily, "and I don't take _all_ the
blocks, either."

"Well, _most_ all, you do," said the other, "and it isn't polite."

"They're mine, and I'll have as many as I want; and I don't care if it
_isn't_ polite," Enna answered, with a pout that by no means improved her
appearance.

"Will you play 'O sister, O Phebe?'" asked Elsie.

"No, no!" cried several little voices, "Enna always wants to be in the
middle; and besides, Arthur always wants to play, and he will kiss us;
and we don't like it."

Elsie was almost in despair; but Herbert, who was lying on a sofa,
reading, suddenly shut his book, saying, "I tell you what, Elsie! tell us
one of those nice fairy stories we all like so much!"

"Yes, do, do!" cried several of the little ones, clapping their hands.

So Elsie drew up a stool close to Herbert's sofa, and the little ones
clustered around her, Enna insisting on having the best place for
hearing; and for more than an hour she kept them quiet and interested;
but was very glad when at last the maid came to take them out walking,
thus leaving her at liberty to follow her own inclination.

"What are you going to do now, Elsie?" asked Caroline, closing her book.

"I am going down to the drawing-room to ask Aunt Adelaide to show me how
to crochet this mitten for mammy," Elsie answered.

"Won't you come along, girls?"

"Yes, let's take our sewing down there," said Lucy, gathering up the bits
of muslin and silk, and putting them in her work-box.

Elsie glanced hastily around as they entered, and gave a satisfied little
sigh on perceiving that Miss Stevens was not in the room, and that her
Aunt Adelaide was seated with her embroidery near one of the windows,
while her papa sat near by, reading the morning paper.

The little girls soon established themselves in a group on the opposite
side of Miss Adelaide's window, and she very good-naturedly gave Elsie
the assistance she needed.

"Elsie," said Lucy, presently, in an undertone, "Carry has been showing
us her bracelet, and I think it is beautiful; she won't tell whose hair
it is--I guess it's her sister's, maybe--but I'm sure yours would make
just as pretty a bracelet, and I want one for my mamma; won't you give me
one of your curls to make it? you have so many that one would never
be missed."

"No, Miss Lucy," said Mr. Dinsmore, looking at them over his paper, "you
can't have one of my curls; I can't spare it."

"I don't want one of _your_ curls, Mr. Dinsmore," laughed Lucy, merrily.
"I didn't ask for it. Your hair is very pretty, too, but it would be
quite too short."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lucy, if my ears deceived me," said he, with
mock gravity, "but I was quite certain I heard you asking for one of my
curls. Perhaps, though, you are not aware of the fact that my curls grow
on two heads."

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Dinsmore," replied Lucy, laughing again,
"but it was one of Elsie's curls I asked for."

"Elsie doesn't own any," said he; "they all belong to me. I let her wear
them, to be sure, but that is all; she has no right to give them away."

He turned to his paper again, and Elsie bent over her work, her face
flushed, and her little hand trembling so that she could scarcely hold
her needle.

"I'm afraid I ought to tell papa," she thought, "that I did give one of
my curls away. I never thought about his caring, but I might have known,
because when I wanted my hair cut last summer, he said they shouldn't one
of them be touched. Oh! dear, why didn't I think of that? I am afraid he
will be very much displeased."

"Don't tell him, then," whispered the tempter, "he is not likely ever to
miss it."

"Nay, but it would be _wrong_ to hide your fault," said conscience.

"I _will_ tell him," she resolved.

"Wait till to-morrow, then," whispered the tempter again; "if you tell
him now, very likely he will deprive you of your ride this afternoon, as
a punishment."

So the struggle went on in the little breast while others were chatting
and laughing around her, never suspecting what a battle the little girl
was fighting within her own heart.

Presently Lucy jumped up. "Oh! I am so tired sewing; come, girls, let's
put on our things, and take a run in the garden."

Carry and Mary readily assented.

"I must speak to papa first," Elsie said in a half whisper, "but don't
wait for me."

She had spoken low, but not so low that his quick ear did not catch the
sound. He had heard her, and laying his paper down on his knee, as the
other little girls ran away, he turned half round and held out his hand,
asking, with a smile, "Well, daughter, what is it? what have you to say
to papa?"

She went to him at once, and he was surprised to see how she was
trembling, and that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes full of tears.

"Why! what ails my darling?" he asked tenderly.

Adelaide had left the room a moment before, and there was no one near
enough to hear.

"Please, papa, don't be very angry with me," she pleaded, speaking very
low and hesitatingly. "I did not know you cared about my curls; I did not
think about their belonging to you, and I did give one to Carry."

He was silent a moment, evidently surprised at her confession; then he
said gently, "No, dearest, I will not be angry this time, and I feel sure
you will not do so again, now you know that I _do_ care."

"No, _indeed_, I will not, dear papa," she replied in a tone of intense
relief. "But you are not going to punish me?" she asked, beginning to
tremble again. "I was _so_ afraid to tell you, lest you would say I
should not have my ride this afternoon."

"Why, then, did you not put off your confession until after the ride?" he
asked, looking searchingly into her face.

"I wanted to very much, papa," she said, looking down and blushing
deeply, "but I knew it would be very wrong."

"My dear, conscientious little daughter," he said, taking her on his
knee, "your father loves you better than ever for this new proof of your
honesty and truthfulness. Deprive you of your ride? no, indeed, I feel
far more like rewarding than punishing you. Ah! I had forgotten! I have
something for you;" and he put his hand into his pocket and brought out
a letter.

"Oh! it is from Miss Rose! dear, darling Miss Rose!" was Elsie's joyful
exclamation, as he put it in her hand.

She made a movement as if to get down from his knee, but he detained her.

"Sit still and read it here, darling," he said, "I love to have you on my
knee, and if there are any hard places I can help you."

"Thank you, papa; sometimes there are hard places--at least pretty hard
for a little girl like me--though I think Miss Rose tries to write
plainly because she knows that I cannot read writing as well as big
people can."

She was eagerly tearing off the envelope while she answered him, and then
settling herself comfortably she began to read.

He watched with deep interest the varying expression of her fine open
countenance as she read. Once or twice she asked him to tell her a word,
but the most of it she got through without any difficulty.

At last she had finished.

"It is such a nice letter, papa," she said as she folded it up, "and so
good of Miss Rose to write to me again so soon."

"Are you not going to let _me_ enjoy it, too?" he asked.

She put it into his hand instantly, saying, with a blush, "I did not know
you would care to read it, papa."

"I am interested in all that gives either pleasure or pain to my little
girl," he answered gently. "I wish to be a sharer in all her joys and
sorrows."

Elsie watched him while he read, almost as intently as he had watched
her; for she was anxious that he should be pleased with Miss Rose's
letter.

It was a cheerful, pleasant letter, well suited to interest a child of
Elsie's years; giving an account of home scenes; telling of her little
brothers and sisters, their love for each other; the little gifts they
had prepared in anticipation of Christmas, etc., etc.

At the close she made some allusion to Elsie's letters, and expressed her
heartfelt sympathy in her little friend's happiness.

"I am so glad, my darling," she wrote, "that your father now loves you so
dearly, and that you are so happy in his love. My heart ached for you in
the bitter disappointment of your first meeting with him. It is true you
never said that you were disappointed, but there was a tone of deep
sadness in your dear little letter, the cause of which I--who knew so
well how you had looked and longed for his return, and how your little
heart yearned for his affection--could not fail to guess. But, dear
child, while you thus rejoice in an _earthly_ father's love, do not
forget that you have a Father in Heaven, who claims the _first_ place in
your heart; and who is the giver of every good gift, not even excepting
the precious love that now makes your young life so bright and happy.
Keep close to Jesus, dear Elsie: His is the only _truly satisfying_
love--the only one we can be certain will never fail us."

"Is it not a nice letter, papa?" asked the little girl, as he refolded
and gave it to her again.

"Very nice, daughter," he answered, in an absent way. He looked very
grave, and Elsie studied his countenance intently while, for some
moments, he sat with his eyes bent thoughtfully upon the carpet. She
feared that something in the letter had displeased him. But presently he
looked at her with his usual affectionate smile, and laying his hand
caressingly on her head, said, "Miss Allison seems to warn you not to
trust too much to the permanence of my affection; but you need not fear
that you will ever lose it, unless, indeed, you cease to be deserving of
it. No, nor even then," he added, drawing her closer to him, "for even
should you grow very naughty and troublesome, you would still be _my
child_--a part of myself and of my lost Elsie, and therefore very dear to
me."

"Ah! papa, how could I ever _bear_ to lose your love? I think I should
die," she said, dropping her head on his breast, with almost a sob. "Oh!
if I am ever very, _very_ naughty, papa, punish me as severely as you
will; but oh, never, _never_ quit _loving_ me."

"Set your heart at rest, my darling," he said, tenderly, "there is no
danger of such a thing. I could not do it, if I wished."

Ah! there came a time when Elsie had sore need of all the comfort the
memory of those words could give.

"What are you going to wear to Isabel Carleton's party, to-night, Elsie?"
asked Lucy, at the dinner table.

"Nothing," replied Elsie, with an arch smile, "I am not going, Lucy," she
added.

"Not going! well, now, that is _too_ bad," cried Lucy, indignantly. "I
think it's really mean of your papa; he never lets you go anywhere."

"Oh, Lucy! he let me go to town with Carry the other day; he has let
me stay up late two or three nights since you came; he is going to let
me ride with the rest of you this afternoon, and he said that I might
do just as I pleased about going to-night," Elsie summed up rather
triumphantly, adding, in a very pleasant tone, "It is entirely my own
choice to stay at home; so you see, Lucy, you must not blame my papa
before you know."

Lucy looked a little ashamed, while Mary Leslie exclaimed:

"Your own choice, Elsie? why, how strange! don't you like parties?"

"Not nearly so well as a quiet evening with papa," replied Elsie,
smiling.

"Well, you are a queer girl!" was Mary's comment, while Caroline
expressed her disappointment and vainly endeavored to change Elsie's
determination. The little girl was firm, because she felt sure she was
doing right, and soon managed to change the subject of conversation to
the pleasure nearest at hand--the ride they were to take immediately
after dinner.

They were a merry party, and really enjoyed themselves about as much as
they had expected; but they returned earlier than usual, as the gentlemen
decided that the little ladies needed some time to rest before the
evening entertainment.

Elsie assisted her young friends to dress for the party--generously
offering to lend them any of her ornaments that they might fancy--saw
them come down, one after another, full of mirth and eager expectation,
and looking so pretty and graceful in their beautiful evening-dresses,
heard their expressions of commiseration toward herself, and watched the
last carriage roll away without a sigh or regret that she was left
behind. And in another moment a graceful little figure glided quietly
across the library, and sitting down on a stool at Mr. Dinsmore's feet,
looked lovingly into his face with a pair of soft, dark eyes.

His pen was moving rapidly over the paper, but ere long there was a
pause, and laying his hand caressingly on the curly head, he said, "How
quiet my little girl is; but where is your book, daughter?"

"If you please, papa, I would rather answer Miss Rose's letter."

"You may," he said, "and if you want to stay with me, you may ring the
bell and tell the servant to bring your writing desk here."

She joyfully availed herself of the permission, and soon her pen was
vainly trying to keep pace with her father's. But presently his was
thrown aside, and rising, he stood behind her chair, giving her
directions how to sit, how to hold the pen, how to form this or that
letter more correctly, guiding her hand, and commending her efforts to
improve.

"There, you have spelled a word wrong, and I see you have one or two
capitals where there should be a small letter; and that last sentence is
not perfectly grammatical," he said. "You must let me correct it when you
are done, and then you must copy it off more carefully."

Elsie looked very much mortified.

"Never mind, daughter," he said kindly, patting her cheek; "you do very
well for a _little_ girl; I dare say I made a great many more mistakes at
your age, and I don't expect you to do better than I did."

"Oh, papa, the letters I sent you when you were away must have been full
of blunders, I am afraid," she said, blushing deeply; "were you not very
much ashamed of me? How could you bear to read them?"

"Ashamed of you, darling? No, indeed, neither of you nor them. I loved
them all the better for the mistakes, because they showed how entirely
your own they were; and I could not but be pleased with them when every
line breathed such love to me. My little daughter's confidence and
affection are worth more to me than the finest gold, or the most
priceless jewels."

He bent down and kissed her fondly as he spoke; then, returning to his
seat, bade her finish her letter and bring it to him when done.

He took up his pen, and Elsie collected her thoughts once more, worked
busily and silently for another half hour, and then brought her sheet to
him for inspection; presenting it with a timid, bashful air, "I am afraid
it is very full of mistakes, papa," she said.

"Never mind, daughter," he answered, encouragingly; "I know that it takes
a great deal of practice to make perfect, and it will be a great pleasure
to me to see you improve."

He looked over it, pointed out the mistakes very kindly and gently,
put the capitals in their proper places, corrected the punctuation,
and showed her how one or two of her sentences might be improved.

Then, handing it back, he said, "You had better put it in your desk now,
and leave the copying until to-morrow, as it will soon be your bedtime,
and I want you on my knee until then."

Elsie's face grew very bright, and she hastened to do his bidding.

"And may I talk, papa?" she asked, as he pushed away his writing, wheeled
his chair about toward the fire, and then took her on his knee.

"Yes," he said, smiling, "that is exactly what I want you to do. Tell me
what you have been doing all day, and how you are enjoying your holidays;
or talk to me of anything that pleases, or that troubles you. I love to
be made the confidant of my little girl's joys and sorrows; and I want
her always to feel that she is sure of papa's sympathy."

"I am so glad that I may tell you everything, my own papa," she answered,
putting her arm around his neck, and laying her cheek to his. "I have
enjoyed this day very much, because I have been with you nearly all the
time; and then, I had that nice letter from Miss Rose, too."

"Yes, it was a very pleasant letter," he said; and then he asked her
what she had been doing in those hours when she had not been with him;
and she gave him an animated account of the occurrences of that and
several of the preceding days, and told of some little accidents that
had happened--amongst them that of the broken doll; and spoke of the
sorrow it had caused her; but she did not blame either Flora or Enna,
and concluded her narrative by saying that, "good, kind Mrs. Brown had
mended it, so that it was almost as good as ever."

He listened with evident interest to all she said, expressed sympathy in
her little trials, and gave her some good advice.

But at length he drew out his watch, and with an exclamation of surprise
at the lateness of the hour, told her it was half an hour after her
bedtime, kissed her good-night, and dismissed her to her room.




CHAPTER II.

                          "There comes
Forever something between us and what
We deem our happiness."

BYRON'S SARDANAPALUS.


It was quite late when the young party returned, and the next day all
were dull, and more than one peevish and fretful; so that Elsie, on whom
fell, almost entirely, the burden of entertaining them, had quite a
trying time.

She noticed at breakfast that Arthur seemed in an uncommonly bad humor,
preserving a sullen and dogged silence, excepting once when a sly whisper
from Harry Carrington drew from him an exclamation of fierce anger that
almost frightened the children, but only made Harry laugh.

Presently after, as they were about dispersing, Arthur came to her side
and whispered that he had something to say to her in private.

Elsie started and looked extremely annoyed, but said at once that he
might come to her room, and that there they could be quite alone, as
mammy would be down-stairs getting her breakfast.

She led the way and Arthur followed. He glanced hastily around on
entering and then locked the door and stood with his back against it.

Elsie became very pale.

"You needn't be _afraid_" he said, sneeringly, "I'm not going to _hurt_
you!"

"What do you want, Arthur? tell me quickly, please, because I must soon
go to papa, and I have a lesson to look over first," she said, mildly.

"I want you to lend me some money," he replied, speaking in a rapid and
determined manner; "I know you've got some, for I saw your purse the
other day, and it hadn't less than five dollars in it, I'm sure, and
that's just the sum I want."

"What do you want it for, Arthur?" she asked in a troubled voice.

"That's none of your business," he answered, fiercely. "I want the money;
I _must_ have it, and I'll pay it back next month, and that's all you
need to know."

"No, Arthur," she said gently, but very firmly, "unless you tell me all
about it, I cannot lend you a single cent, because papa has forbidden me
to do so, and I cannot disobey him."

"Nonsense! that's nothing but an excuse because you don't choose to do me
a favor," returned the boy angrily; "you weren't so particular about
obeying last summer when he made you sit all the afternoon at the piano,
because you didn't choose to play what he told you to."

"That was because it would have been breaking God's command; but this is
very different," replied Elsie, mildly.

"Well, if you _must_ know," said he, fiercely, "I want it to pay a debt;
I've been owing Dick Percival a dollar or so for several weeks, and last
night he won from me again, and he said if I didn't pay up he'd report me
to papa, or Horace, and get the money from them; and I got off only by
promising to let him have the full amount to-day; but my pocket money's
all gone, and I can't get anything out of mamma, because she told me the
last time I went to her, that she couldn't give me any more without papa
finding out all about it. So you see there is nobody to help me but you,
Elsie, for there's never any use in asking my sisters; they never have a
cent to spare! Now be a good, obliging girl; come and let me have the
money."

"Oh! Arthur, you've been gambling; how _could_ you do so?" she exclaimed
with a horrified look. "It is so _very_ wicked! you'll go to ruin,
Arthur, if you keep on in such bad ways; do go to grandpa and tell him
all about it, and promise never to do so again, and I am sure he will
forgive you, and pay your debts, and then you will feel a great deal
happier."

"Tell papa, indeed; never! I'd _die_ first! Elsie, you _must_ lend me the
money," he said, seizing her by the wrist.

"Let go of me, Arthur," she said, trying to free herself from his grasp.
"You are stronger than I am, but you know if you hurt me, papa will be
sure to find it out."

He threw her hand from him with a violence that made her stagger, and
catch at the furniture to save herself from falling.

"Will you give me the money then?" he asked angrily.

"If I should do so, I would have to put it down in my expense book, and
tell papa all about it, because he does not allow me to spend one cent
without telling him just what it went for; and that would be much worse
for you, Arthur, than to go and confess it yourself--a _great deal_
worse, I am sure."

"You could manage it well enough, if you wanted to," said he, sullenly;
"it would be an easy matter to add a few yards to the flannel, and a few
pounds to the tobacco that you bought so much of for the old servants.
Just give _me_ your book, and I'll fix it in a minute, and he'll never
find it out."

"Arthur!" she exclaimed, "I could _never_ do such a wicked thing! I would
not deceive papa so for any money; and even if I did he would be sure to
find it out."

Some one tried the door.

Arthur put his hand on the lock; then, turning toward Elsie again, for
an instant, shook his fist in her face, muttering, with an oath, that he
would be revenged, and make her sorry for her refusal to the last day of
her life. He then opened the door and went out, leaving poor Elsie pale,
and trembling like a leaf.

The person, whoever it was, that had tried the door had gone away again,
and Elsie had a few moments alone to recover herself, before Chloe came
to tell her that her father could not have her with him that morning, as
a gentleman had called on business.

And much as Elsie had always enjoyed that hour, she was almost glad of
the respite, so fearful was she that her papa would see that something
had agitated her, and insist upon knowing what it was. She was very much
troubled that she had been made the repository of such a secret, and
fearful that she ought to tell her father or grandfather, because it
seemed so very important that Arthur should be stopped in his evil
courses. But remembering that he had said that her assistance was his
only hope for escaping detection, she at length decided that she need
not speak about the matter to any one.

She had a trying time that day, endeavoring to keep the children amused;
and her ingenuity and patience were taxed to the utmost to think of
stories and games that would please them all.

It was still early in the afternoon when she seemed to have got quite to
the end of her list. She was trying to amuse Enna's set, while her three
companions and Herbert were taking care of themselves. They had sat down
on the floor, and were playing jack-stones.

"Let us play jack-stones, too," said Flora. "I don't know how; but Elsie,
you can teach me, can't you?"

"No, Flora, I cannot indeed, for papa says I must not play that game,
because he does not like to have me sit down on the floor," replied
Elsie. "We must try to think of something else."

"We needn't sit on the floor, need we? Couldn't we play it on the table?"
asked Flora.

"I don't know; perhaps we could; but papa said I mustn't play it,"
replied Elsie, shaking her head doubtfully.

"But maybe he'd let you, if we don't sit on the floor," persisted the
little girl.

Several other little ones joined their entreaties to Flora's, and at
length Elsie said, "Well, I will go and ask papa; perhaps he may let me,
if I tell him we are not going to sit on the floor."

She went to his dressing-room, but he was not there. Next she tried the
library, and was more successful; he was in an easy chair by the fire,
reading.

But now that she had found him, Elsie, remembering how often he had told
her never to ask a second time to do what he had once forbidden, was more
than half afraid to prefer her request, and very much inclined to go back
without doing so.

But as she stood a moment irresolute, he looked up from his book, and
seeing who it was, smiled and held out his hand.

She went to him then, and said timidly, "Papa, some of the little ones
want me to play jack-stones, to teach them how; may I, if we don't sit on
the floor?"

"Elsie," he replied, in a tone of great displeasure, "it was only the
other day that I positively forbade you to play that game, and, after all
that I have said to you about not asking a second time, it surprises me
very much that you would dare to do it. Go to my dressing-room, and shut
yourself into the closet there."

Elsie burst into tears, as she turned to obey, then, hesitatingly, asked,
"May I go down first, papa, and tell the children that I can't come to
play with them?"

"Elsie!" he exclaimed, in his sternest tone; and not daring to utter
another word, trembling and weeping, she hastened from the room, and shut
herself up as he had bidden her.

The closet was large, and there was a stool she could sit on; but when
she had shut the door, it was both dark and cold. It was a dismal place
to be in, and poor Elsie wondered how long she would have to stay there.

It seemed a long, long time; so long that she began to think it must be
night, and to fear that perhaps her papa had forgotten all about having
sent her there, or that he considered her so very naughty as to deserve
to stay there all night.

But at last she heard his step, and then he opened the door and called,
"Elsie!"

"Yes, papa, I am here," she replied in a trembling voice, full of tears.

"Come to me," he said; and then, as he took her hand, "Why, how cold you
are, child," he exclaimed; "I am really sorry you have been so long in
that dismal place. I did not intend to punish you so severely, and should
not have kept you there more than half an hour, at the _very longest_;
but company came in, and I quite forgot you."

While speaking thus he had led her up to the fire and sat down with her
on his knee. "My poor darling!" he said, "these little hands are very
cold, let papa rub them; and are your feet cold too?"

"Yes sir," she replied, and he pulled off her shoes and stockings, and
moving his chair closer to the fire, held her feet out toward the blaze,
and rubbed them in his warm hands.

"You have been crying a good deal," he said, looking keenly into her
face.

"Yes, papa," she replied, dropping her face on his breast and bursting
into tears; "I thought you were going to leave me there all night."

"Did you? and were you afraid?"

"No, papa, not _afraid_, because I know you would be sleeping in the next
room; and besides, God could take care of me as well in the closet as
anywhere else. Is it getting night, papa, or morning?"

"It is beginning to grow dark," he said. "But tell me why you cried, if
you were not afraid."

"Partly because I was uncomfortable, papa, but more because I was sorry
I had been naughty, and displeased you, and afraid that I can never learn
to be good."

"It is very strange," he remarked, "that you cannot learn not to ask to
do what I have forbidden. I shall have to punish you every time you do
it; for you _must_ learn that no _means no_, and that you are never to
coax or tease after papa has once said it. I love my little girl very
dearly, and want to do all I can to make her happy, but I must have her
entirely submissive and obedient to me. But stop crying now," he added,
wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. "Kiss me, and tell me you are
going to be a good girl, and I will forgive you this time."

"I will try, papa," she said, holding up her face for the kiss; "and I
would not have asked to play that, but the children begged me so, and
I thought you only said I mustn't, because you didn't want me to sit on
the floor; and we were going to try it on the table."

"Did I give that reason?" he asked gravely.

"No, papa," she replied, hanging her head.

"Then you had no right to think so. That _was one_ reason, but not the
_only_ one. I have heard it said that that play enlarges the knuckles,
and I don't choose to have these little hands of mine robbed of their
beauty," he added, playfully raising them to his lips.

Elsie smiled faintly, then drew a deep sigh.

"Is it so very hard to give up jack-stones?" he asked.

"No, papa; I don't care anything about _that_, but I was just thinking
how very naughty I must be growing; for you have had to punish me twice
in one week; and then I have had such a hard day of it--it was so
difficult to amuse the children. I think being up so late last night
made them feel cross."

"Ah!" he said, in a sympathizing tone; "and had you all the burden of
entertaining them? Where were Louise and Lora?"

"They are hardly ever with us, papa; we are too little to play with them,
they say, and Enna won't do anything her little friends want her to,
and"--she paused, and the color rushed over her face with the sudden
thought--"I am afraid I am telling tales."

"And so they put upon you all the trouble of entertaining both your own
company and theirs, eh? It is shameful! a downright imposition, and I
shall not put up with it!" he exclaimed indignantly. "I shall speak to
Lora and Louise, and tell them they must do their share of the work."

"Please, papa, _don't_," Elsie begged in a frightened tone. "I would a
great deal rather just go on as we have been; they will be so vexed."

"And suppose they are! they shall not hurt you," he said, drawing her
closer to him; "and they have no reason to be. I think the children will
all want to go to bed early to-night," he added, "and then you can come
here and sit by me while you copy your letter; shall you like that?"

"Very much, papa, thank you."

"Well, then we will put on the shoes and stockings again," he said
pleasantly, "and then you must bathe your eyes, and go to your supper;
and, as soon as the others retire, you may come back to me."

Elsie had to make haste, for the tea-bell rang almost immediately.

The others were just taking their places at the table when she entered
the room, and thus, their attention being occupied with the business in
hand, she escaped the battery of questions and looks of curiosity which
she had feared.

Flora did turn round after a little, to ask: "Why didn't you come back,
Elsie; wouldn't your papa let you play?" But Elsie's quiet "no" seemed to
satisfy her, and she made no further remark about it.

As Mr. Dinsmore had expected, the children were all ready for bed
directly after tea; and then Elsie went to him, and had another quiet
evening, which she enjoyed so much that she thought it almost made up for
all the troubles and trials of the day; for her father, feeling a little
remorseful on account of her long imprisonment in the closet, was, if
possible, even more than usually tender and affectionate in his manner
toward her.

The next morning Mr. Dinsmore found an opportunity to remonstrate with
his sisters on their neglect of the little guests, but did it in such a
way that they had no idea that Elsie had been complaining of them--as,
indeed, she had not--but supposed that he had himself noticed their
remissness; and feeling somewhat ashamed of their want of politeness,
they went into the children's room after breakfast, and exerted
themselves for an hour or two, for the entertainment of the little ones.
It was but a spasmodic effort, however, and they soon grew weary of the
exertion, and again let the burden fall upon Elsie. She did the best she
could, poor child, but these were tiresome and trying days from that
until New Year's.

One afternoon Mr. Horace Dinsmore was sitting in his own room, buried in
an interesting book, when the door opened and closed again very quietly,
and his little girl stole softly to his side, and laying her head on his
shoulder, stood there without uttering a word.

For hours she had been exerting herself to the utmost to amuse the
young guests, her efforts thwarted again and again by the petulance
and unreasonableness of Walter and Enna; she had also borne much teasing
from Arthur, and fault-finding from Mrs. Dinsmore, to whom Enna was
continually carrying tales, until, at length, no longer able to endure
it, she had stolen away to her father to seek for comfort.

"My little girl is tired," he said, passing his arm affectionately around
her, and pressing his lips on her forehead.

She burst into tears, and sobbed quite violently.

"Why, what is it, darling? what troubles my own sweet child?" he asked,
in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm, as he hastily laid aside his
book and drew her to his knee.

"Nothing, papa; at least, nothing very bad; I believe I am very silly,"
she replied, trying to smile through her tears.

"It must have been something, Elsie," he said, very gravely; "something
quite serious, I think, to affect you so; tell me what it was, daughter."

"Please don't ask me, papa," she begged imploringly.

"I hate concealments, Elsie, and shall be very much displeased if you try
them with me," he answered, almost sternly.

"Dear papa, _don't_ be angry," she pleaded, in a tremulous tone; "I don't
want to have any concealments from you, but you know I ought not to tell
tales. You won't _make_ me do it?"

"Is that it?" he said, kissing her. "No, I shall not ask you to tell
tales, but I am not going to have you abused by anybody, and shall take
care to find out from some one else who it is that annoys you."

"Oh, papa, please don't trouble yourself about it. I do not mind it at
all, now."

"But _I_ do," replied her father, "and I shall take care that you are not
annoyed in the same way again."

The tears rose in Elsie's eyes again, and she reproached herself severely
for allowing her father to see how troubled she had been; but she said
not another word, for she well knew from his look and tone that it would
be worse than useless.




CHAPTER III.

"Revenge, at first though sweet,
Bitter, ere long, back on itself recoils."

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.


"Tis easier for the generous to forgive,
Than for offence to ask it."

THOMSON'S EDMUND AND ELEONORA.


The last day of the old year had come; the afternoon was bright and warm
for the season, and the little folks at Roselands were unanimously in
favor of a long walk. They set out soon after dinner, all in high good
humor except Arthur, who was moody and silent, occasionally casting an
angry glance at Elsie, whom he had not yet forgiven for her refusal to
lend him money; but no one seemed to notice it, and for some time nothing
occurred to mar their enjoyment.

At length, some of the older ones, seeing that the sun was getting low,
called to the others that it was time to return, and all turned their
faces homeward, walking more soberly and silently along than at first,
for they were beginning to feel somewhat fatigued.

They were climbing a steep hill. Elsie and Caroline Howard reached the
top first, Arthur and Harry Carrington being but a few steps behind.

Elsie stooped to pick up a pebble, and Arthur, darting quickly past her,
managed to give her a push that sent her rolling down the bank. She gave
one frightened cry as she fell, and the next instant was lying pale and
motionless at the bottom.

All was now terror and confusion among the children; the little ones,
who all loved Elsie dearly, began to scream and cry. Harry, Lucy,
Carry, and Mary, rushed down the path again as fast as they could, and
were soon standing pale and breathless beside the still form of their
little companion. Carry was the only one who seemed to have any presence
of mind. She sat down on the ground, and lifting Elsie's head, laid it
on her lap, untied her bonnet-strings, and loosened her dress.

"Jim," she said to the black boy, who stood blubbering by her side, "run
quickly for the doctor. And you, Harry Carrington, go for her father, as
fast as you can. Lucy, crying so won't do any good. Haven't some of you
a smelling-bottle about you?"

"Yes, yes, here, here! quick! quick! Oh, Carry, say she isn't dead!"
cried Mary Leslie, diving into her pocket and bringing out a small bottle
of smelling salts that some one had presented her as a Christmas gift.

"No, she is not dead, Mary; see, she is beginning to open her eyes,"
replied Carry, now bursting into tears herself.

But Elsie opened them only for an instant, moaned as if in great pain,
and relapsed again into insensibility, so like death that Carry shuddered
and trembled with fear.

They were not more than a quarter of a mile from the house, but it
seemed almost an age to the anxious Carry before Mr. Dinsmore came;
although it was in reality but a few moments, as Harry ran very fast,
and Mr. Dinsmore sprang into the carriage--which was at the door, some
of the party having just returned from a drive--the instant he heard the
news, calling to Harry to accompany him, and bidding the coachman drive
directly to the spot, with all speed.

The moment they were off he began questioning the boy closely as to the
cause of the accident. Harry could not tell much about it. "She had
fallen down the hill," he said, "but he did not see what made her fall."

"Was she much hurt?" Mr. Dinsmore asked, his voice trembling a little in
spite of himself.

Harry "did not know, but feared she was pretty badly injured."

"Was she insensible?"

"Yes, she was when I left," Harry said.

Mr. Dinsmore leaned back in the carriage with a groan and did not speak
again.

In another moment they had stopped, and flinging open the door, he sprang
to the ground, and hurried toward the little group, who were still
gathered about Elsie just as Harry had left them; some looking on with
pale, frightened faces, others sobbing aloud. Walter was crying quite
bitterly, and even Enna had the traces of tears on her cheeks. As for
Arthur, he trembled and shuddered at the thought that he was perhaps
already a murderer, and frightened and full of remorse, shrank behind
the others as he saw his brother approach.

Elsie still lay with her head in Carry's lap.

Hastily pushing the others aside, Mr. Dinsmore stooped over her, sorrow
and intense anxiety written in every line of his countenance.

Again Elsie opened her eyes, and smiled faintly as she saw him bending
over her.

"My precious one," he murmured in a low, moved tone, as he gently lifted
her in his arms; "are you much hurt? Are you in pain?"

"Yes, papa," she answered feebly.

"Where, darling?"

"My ankle, papa; it pains me terribly; and I think I must have hit my
head, it hurts me so."

"How did she come to fall?" he asked, looking round upon the little
group.

No one replied.

"Please, papa, don't ask," she pleaded in a faint voice.

He gave her a loving, pitying look, but paid no other heed to her
remonstrance.

"Who was near her?" he asked, glancing sternly around the little circle.

"Arthur," said several voices.

Arthur quailed beneath the terrible glance of his brother's eye, as he
turned it upon him, exclaiming bitterly: "Yes, I understand it all, now!
I believe you will never be satisfied until you have killed her."

"Dear papa, please take me home, and don't scold poor Arthur," pleaded
Elsie's sweet, gentle voice; "I am not so very badly hurt, and I am sure
he is very sorry for me."

"Yes, darling," he said, "I will take you home and will try to do so
without hurting you;" and nothing could exceed the tenderness with which
he bore her to the carriage, supported her in his arms during the short
ride, and on their arrival carried her up to her room and laid her down
upon a sofa.

Jim had brought the doctor, and Mr. Dinsmore immediately requested him to
make a careful examination of the child's injuries.

He did so, and reported a badly sprained ankle, and a slight bruise on
the head; nothing more.

"Are you quite sure, doctor, that her spine has sustained no injury?"
asked the father anxiously, adding, "there is scarcely anything I should
so dread for her as that."

"None whatever," replied the physician confidently, and Mr. Dinsmore
looked greatly relieved.

"My back does not hurt me at all, papa; I don't think I struck it," Elsie
said, looking up lovingly into his face.

"How did you happen to fall, my dear?" asked the doctor.

"If you please, sir, I would rather not tell," she replied, while the
color rushed over her face, and then instantly faded away again, leaving
her deathly pale. She was suffering great pain, but bearing it bravely.

The doctor was dressing the injured ankle, and her father sat by the sofa
holding her hand.

"You need not, darling," he answered, kissing her cheek.

"Thank you, papa," she said, gratefully, then whispered, "Won't you stay
with me till tea-time, if you are not busy?"

"Yes, daughter, and all the evening, too; perhaps all night."

She looked her happiness and thanks, and the doctor praised her patience
and fortitude; and having given directions concerning the treatment of
the wounded limb, bade his little patient good-night, saying he would
call again in the morning.

Mr. Dinsmore followed him to the door.

"That's a sweet child, Mr. Dinsmore," he remarked. "I don't know how any
one could have the heart to injure her; but I think there has been foul
play somewhere, and if she were mine I should certainly sift the matter
to the bottom."

"That I shall, you may rest assured, sir; but tell me doctor, do you
think her ankle very seriously injured?"

"Not permanently, I hope; indeed, I feel quite sure of it, if she is
well taken care of, and not allowed to use it too soon; but these sprains
are tedious things, and she will not be able to walk for some weeks.
Good-night, sir; don't be too anxious, she will get over it in time,
and you may be thankful it is nothing worse."

"I am, indeed, doctor," Mr. Dinsmore said, warmly grasping the hand the
kind-hearted physician held out to him.

Everybody was asking what the doctor had said, and how much Elsie was
injured, and Mr. Dinsmore stepped into the drawing-room a moment to
answer their inquiries, and then hastened back to his child again.

She looked so glad to see him.

"My poor little pet," he said, pityingly, "you will have a sad New Year's
Day, fastened down to your couch; but you shall have as much of my
company as you wish."

"Shall I, papa?--then you will have to stay by me all day long."

"And so I will, dearest," he said, leaning fondly over her, and stroking
back the hair from her forehead. "Are you in much pain now, darling?" he
asked, as he noticed a slight contraction of her brow, and an almost
deadly pallor around her mouth.

"Yes, papa, a good deal," she answered faintly; "and I feel so weak.
Please take me in your arms, papa, I want to lay my head against you."

He raised her up gently, sat down on the end of the couch where her head
had been, lifted her to his knee, and made Chloe place a pillow for the
wounded limb to rest upon.

"There, darling, is that better?" he asked, soothingly, as she laid her
head wearily down on his breast, and he folded his arms about her.

"Yes, papa; but, oh, it aches very much," she sighed.

"My poor little daughter! my poor little pet!" he said, in a deeply
compassionate tone, "it is so hard to see you suffer; I would gladly take
your pain and bear it for you if I could."

"Oh, no, dear papa, I would much rather bear it myself," she answered
quickly.

The tea-bell rang, and Elsie half started up.

"Lie still, dearest," her father said. "I am in no hurry for my tea, so
you shall have yours first, and I will hold you while you eat it. What
will you have? You may ask for anything you want."

"I don't know, papa; whatever you please."

"Well, then, Aunt Chloe, go down and bring up whatever good things are
there, and she can take her choice. Bring a cup of hot tea, too, I think
it may do her good to-night."

"Thank you, dear papa, you are so kind," Elsie said, gratefully.

When the carriage had driven off with Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie, the rest
of the young party at once turned their steps toward the house; Arthur
skulking in the rear, and the others eagerly discussing the accident as
they went.

"Arthur pushed her down, I am _sure_ he did," said Lucy, positively. "I
believe he hates her like poison, and he has been at her about something
the several days past--I know it just by the way I've seen him look at
her--yes, ever since the morning after the Carleton party. And now I
remember I heard his voice talking angrily in her room that very morning.
I went to get a book I had left in there, and when I tried the door it
was locked, and I went away again directly."

"But what has that to do with Elsie's fall?" asked Mary Leslie.

"Why, don't you see that it shows there was some trouble between them,
and that Arthur had a _motive_ for pushing her down," returned Lucy,
somewhat impatiently. "Really, Mary, you seem quite stupid sometimes."

Mary looked hurt.

"I don't know how any one could be so wicked and cruel; especially to
such a dear, sweet little girl as Elsie," remarked Carry Howard.

"No, nor I," said Harry; "but the more I think about it the more certain
I feel that Arthur did really push her down; for now I remember
distinctly where she stood, and it seems to me she could not possibly
have fallen of herself. Besides it was evident enough that Arthur felt
guilty from the way he acted when Mr. Dinsmore came, and when he spoke
to him. But perhaps he did not do it quite on purpose."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "I do think I should be frightened to death if Mr.
Dinsmore should look at me as he did at Arthur."

"Looks can't hurt," observed Harry, wisely; "but I wouldn't be in
Arthur's shoes just now for considerable; because I'll venture to say Mr.
Dinsmore will do something a good deal worse than _look_, before he is
done with him."

When they reached the house Lucy went directly to her mamma's room.
Herbert, who was more ailing than usual that day, lay on a sofa, while
his mamma sat by his side, reading to him. They had not heard of the
accident, and were quite startled by Lucy's excited manner.

"Oh, mamma!" she cried, jerking off her bonnet, and throwing herself
down on a stool at her mother's feet, "we have had such a dreadful
accident, or hardly an _accident_ either, for I feel perfectly certain
Arthur did it on purpose; and I just expect he'll kill her some day,
the mean, wicked boy!" and she burst into tears. "If I were Mr. Dinsmore
I'd have him put in jail, so I would," she sobbed.

"Lucy, my child, what _are_ you talking about?" asked her mother with a
look of mingled surprise and alarm, while Herbert started up asking, "Is
it Elsie? Oh! Lucy, is she much hurt?"

"Yes," sobbed Lucy, "we all thought she was dead, it was so long before
she spoke, or moved, or even opened her eyes."

Herbert was crying, too, now, as bitterly as his sister.

"But, Lucy dear," said her mother, wiping her eyes, "you haven't told
us anything yet. Where did it happen? What did Arthur do? And where is
poor little Elsie now?"

"Her papa brought her home, and Jim went for the doctor, and they're
doing something with her now in her own room--for Pomp said Mr. Dinsmore
carried her right up there! Oh I mamma, if you had seen him look at
Arthur!"

"But what did Arthur do?" asked Herbert anxiously.

"He pushed her down that steep hill that you remember you were afraid to
try to climb the other day; at least we all think he did."

"But surely, he did not do it intentionally," said Mrs. Carrington,
"for why should he wish to harm such a sweet, gentle little creature
as Elsie?"

"Oh! mamma," exclaimed Herbert, suddenly matching hold of her hand and he
grew very pale, and almost gasped for breath.

"What is it, Herbert dear, what is it?" she asked in alarm; for he had
fallen back on his pillow, and seemed almost ready to faint.

"Mamma," he said with a shudder, "mamma, I believe I know. Oh! why didn't
I speak before, and, perhaps, poor little Elsie might have been saved all
this."

"Why, Herbert, what can _you_ know about it?" she asked in extreme
surprise.

"I will tell you, mama, as well as I can," he said, "and then you must
tell me what I ought to do. You know, mamma, I went out to walk with the
rest the afternoon after that party at Mr. Carleton's; for if you
remember, I had stayed at home the night before, and gone to bed very
early, and so I felt pretty well and able to walk. But Elsie was not
with us. I don't know where she could have been; she always thinks of my
lameness, and walks slowly when I am along, but this time they all walked
so fast that I soon grew very tired, indeed, with trying to keep up. So
I sat down on a log to rest. Well, mamma, I had not been there very long
when I heard voices near me, on the other side of some bushes, that, I
suppose, must have prevented them from seeing me. One voice was Arthur's,
but the other I didn't know. I didn't want to be listening, but I was too
tired to move on; so I whistled a little, to let them know I was there;
they didn't seem to care, though, but went on talking quite loud, so loud
that I could not help hearing almost every word; and so I soon learned
that Arthur owed Dick Percival a gambling debt--a debt of _honor_, they
called it--and had sent this other boy, whom Arthur called Bob, to try to
collect it. He reminded Arthur that he had promised to pay that day, and
said Dick must have it to pay some debts of his own.

"Arthur acknowledged that he had promised, expecting to borrow the money
from somebody. I didn't hear the name, and it never struck me until this
moment who it was; but it must have been Elsie, for I recollect he said
she wouldn't lend him anything without telling Horace all about it, and
that, you know, is Mr. Dinsmore's name; and I have found out that Arthur
is very much afraid of him; almost more than of his father, I think.

"He talked very angrily, saying he knew that was only an excuse, because
she didn't wish to do him a favor, and he'd pay her for it some day. Then
they talked about the debt again, and finally the boy agreed that Dick
would wait until New Year's Day, when Arthur said he would receive his
monthly allowance, and so would certainly be able to pay it.

"Now, mamma," concluded Herbert, "what ought I to do? Do you think it is
my duty to tell Arthur's father?"

"Yes, Herbert, I do," said Mrs. Carrington, "because it is very important
that he should know of his son's evil courses, that he may put a stop to
them; and besides, if Arthur should escape punishment this time, Elsie
may be in danger from him again. I am sorry it happened to be you rather
than some other person who overheard the conversation; but it cannot be
helped, and we must do our duty always, even though we find it difficult
and disagreeable, and feel afraid that our motives may be misconstrued."

Herbert drew a deep sigh.

"Well, mamma, must I go just now, to tell him?" he asked, looking pale
and troubled.

Mrs. Carrington seemed to be considering the matter for a moment.

"No, my dear," she said; "I think we had better wait a little. Probably
Mr. Dinsmore will make an investigation, and perhaps he may be able to
get at the truth without your assistance; and if not, as the mischief is
already done, it will be time enough for your story to-morrow."

Herbert looked a good deal relieved, and just then they were summoned to
tea.

The elder Mr. Dinsmore had been out all the afternoon, and not returning
until just as the bell rang for tea, heard nothing of Elsie's injury
until after he had taken his seat at the table.

The children had all reported that Arthur had pushed her down, and thus
the story was told to his father. The old gentleman was very angry, for
he had a great contempt for such cowardly deeds; and said before all the
guests that if it were so, Arthur should be severely punished.

Mr. Horace Dinsmore came down as the rest were about leaving the table.

"I should like to have a few moments' conversation with you, Horace, when
you have finished your tea," his father said, lingering behind the
others.

"It is just what I wish, sir," replied his son; "I will be with you
directly. Shall I find you in the library?"

"Yes. I hope the child was not hurt, Horace?" he added, inquiringly,
stepping back again just as he had reached the door.

"Pretty badly, I am afraid," said Mr. Dinsmore, gravely; "she is
suffering a good deal."

Mr. Dinsmore was not long at the table, for he was anxious to get back to
his child; yet his father, whom he found striding back and forth across
the library, in a nervous, excited way, hailed him with the impatient
exclamation, "Come at last, Horace, I thought you would never have done
eating."

Then throwing himself into a chair, "Well, what is to be done about this
bad business?" he asked. "Is it true that Arthur had a hand in it?"

"I have not a doubt of it myself, sir," replied his son. "They all agree
that he was close to her when she fell, and neither he nor she denies
that he pushed her; she only begs not to be forced to speak, and he
says nothing.

"And now, father, I have fully made up my mind that either that boy
must be sent away to school, or I must take Elsie and make a home for
her elsewhere."

"Why, Horace! that is a sudden resolution, is it not?"

"No, father, not so much as it seems. I have suspected, for some time
past, that Elsie had a good deal to bear from Arthur and Enna--to say
nothing of an older person, to whom Enna is continually carrying tales.
Elsie is too generous to tell tales, too meek and patient to complain,
and so it has been only very gradually that I have learned how much of
petulance, tyranny, and injustice she has had to endure from those from
whom she certainly had a right to expect common kindness, if not
affection.

"Yesterday afternoon she came to me in such a state of nervous excitement
as convinced me that something had gone very much amiss with her, but
what it was I did not know, for she seemed unwilling to tell, and I would
not force her to do so.

"However, by putting a few questions to some of the little guests, I have
since learned enough to fill me with indignation at the treatment to
which my child has been subjected, even during the last two weeks; and
now the occurrences of this afternoon have put the finishing stroke to
all this, and I cannot any longer feel that my child is safe where Arthur
is. It is a great mercy that she escaped being killed or crippled for
life," and he dropped his face into his hands and shuddered.

"Don't, Horace, my son," his father said kindly, laying his hand on his
shoulder. "I don't like to see you give way so. It is not worth while
troubling ourselves about what _might_ have been, and we will take
measures to prevent such occurrences in the future.

"But you mustn't think of leaving us to set up a separate establishment,
unless you are intending to marry again, and I don't believe you are."

Mr. Dinsmore shook his head.

"Nothing of the kind," he said; "but I must protect my child; she has no
one else to look to for protection, or sympathy, or love--my poor little
one!--and it would be hard indeed if she could not have them from me."

"So it would, Horace, certainly. I am afraid we have none of us treated
the poor little thing quite as kindly as we might, but I really was not
aware that she had been so much abused, and shall certainly speak
to Mrs. Dinsmore about it. And Arthur shall be sent away to school, as
you have suggested. It is what I have been wanting to do for some time,
for he is getting quite beyond Miss Day; but his mother has always
opposed it, and I have foolishly given up to her for peace sake. I set
my foot down now, however, and he _shall go_. He deserves it richly, the
young rascal! such a base, cowardly act as to attack a little girl, big,
strong boy that he is! I'm ashamed of him. You, Horace, were a wild,
headstrong fellow, but I never knew you do a _mean_ or _cowardly_ thing;
you were always above it."

"I hope so, indeed, sir. But now, to go back to the present business, do
you not think it would be well to call all the young people together and
have a thorough investigation of this affair? I have promised Elsie that
she shall not be forced to speak, but I hope we may be able to learn from
the others all that we need to know."

"Yes, yes, Horace, we will do so at once!" replied his father, ringing
the bell. "They must be all through with their tea by this time, and we
will invite them into the drawing-room, and cross-question them until we
get to the bottom of the whole thing."

A servant answered the bell, and received directions to request--on his
master's behalf--all the guests, both old and young, as well as every
member of the family, to give their attendance in the drawing-room for
a few moments.

"Stay, father," said Horace, "possibly Arthur might be induced to
confess, and so spare himself and us the pain of a public exposure; had
we not better send for him first?"

His father assented, and the servant was ordered to go in search of
Arthur, and bring him to the library.

Arthur had been expecting such a summons, and had quite made up his mind
what to do.

"Confess!" he said to himself; "no, indeed, I'll not! nobody but Elsie
knows that I did it, and she'll never tell; so I'll stick to it that it
was only an accident."

He came in with a look of sullen, dogged determination on his
countenance, and stood before his father and brother with folded arms,
and an air of injured innocence. He was careful, however, not to meet
his brother's eye.

"Arthur," began his father, sternly, "this is shameful, cowardly
behavior, utterly unworthy of a son of mine--this unprovoked assault
upon a defenceless little girl. It has always been considered a cowardly
act to attack one weaker than ourselves."

"I _didn't_ do it! she slipped and fell of herself," replied the boy
fiercely, speaking through his clenched teeth.

"Arthur," said his brother, in a calm, firm tone, "the alternative before
you is a frank and full confession here in private, or a disgraceful,
public exposure in the drawing-room. You had better confess, for I have
not the least doubt of your guilty because I well know that Elsie would
have asserted your innocence, had she been able to do so with truth."

"She _wouldn't_; she hates me," muttered the boy; "yes, and I hate her,
too," he added, almost under his breath. But his brother's quick ear
caught the words.

"Yes," he answered, bitterly; "you have given full proof of that; but
_never_, while I live, shall you have another opportunity to wreak your
hellish rage upon her."

But threats and persuasions were alike powerless to move Arthur's
stubborn will; for, trusting to their supposed inability to prove his
guilt, he persisted in denying it; and at length, much against his
inclination, was forced to accompany his father and brother to the
drawing-room, where the entire household was already assembled.

There was a good deal of excitement and whispering together, especially
amongst the younger portion of the assembly, and many conjectures as to
the cause of their being thus called together; nearly all giving it as
their decided opinion that Elsie's accident had something to do with it.

Herbert was looking pale and nervous, and kept very close to his mamma,
Harry Carrington and Carrie Howard were grave and thoughtful, while
Lucy and Mary seemed restless and excited, and the lesser ones full of
curiosity and expectation. There was quite a little buzz all over the
room as the two gentlemen and Arthur entered, but it died away instantly,
and was succeeded by an almost death-like stillness, broken the next
moment by the elder Mr. Dinsmore's voice, as he briefly stated his object
in thus calling them together, and earnestly requested any one present
who could throw the least light on the subject, to speak.

He paused, and there was a moment of profound silence.

"Who was nearest to Elsie when she fell?" he asked; "can any one tell
me?"

"Arthur, sir," replied several voices.

Another pause.

"Who else was near her?" he asked. "Miss Carrie Howard, I have noticed
that you and Elsie are usually together; can you tell me if she could
have fallen of herself? Were you near enough to see?"

Carrie answered reluctantly: "Yes, sir; I had stepped from her side at
the moment she stooped to pick up something, and feel quite certain that
she was not near enough to the edge to have fallen of herself."

"Thank you for your frank reply. And now, Master Harry Carrington, I
think I heard some one say you were quite close to Arthur at the time of
Elsie's fall; can you tell me what he did to her? You will confer a great
favor by answering with equal frankness."

"I would much rather have been excused from saying anything, sir,"
replied Harry, coloring and looking as if he wished himself a thousand
miles away; "but since you request it, I will own that I was close to
Arthur, and think he must have pushed Elsie in springing past her, but
it may have been only an accident."

"I fear not," said the old gentleman, looking sternly at his son. "And
now, does any one know that Elsie had vexed Arthur in any way, or that
he had any unkind feelings toward her?"

"Yes, papa," Walter spoke up suddenly. "I heard Arthur, the other
day, talking very crossly about Elsie, and threatening to pay her for
something; but I didn't understand what."

Mr. Dinsmore's frown was growing darker, and Arthur began to tremble and
turn pale. He darted a fierce glance at Walter, but the little fellow did
not see it.

"Does any one know what Elsie had done?" was the next question.

No one spoke, and Herbert fidgeted and grew very pale. Mr. Horace
Dinsmore noticed it, and begged him if he knew anything to tell it at
once; and Herbert reluctantly repeated what he had already told his
mother of the conversation in the woods; and as he concluded, Lora
drew a note from her pocket, which she handed to her father, saying that
she had picked it up in the school-room, from a pile of rubbish which
Arthur had carelessly thrown out of his desk.

Mr. Dinsmore took it, glanced hastily over the contents, and with a
groan, exclaimed: "Is it possible!--a gambler already! Arthur, has it
really come to this?

"Go to your room, sir," he added, sternly, "there to remain in solitary
confinement until arrangement can be made to send you to school at a
distance from the home which shall be no longer polluted by your
presence; for you are unworthy to mingle with the rest of the family."

Arthur obeyed in sullen silence, and his father, following, turned the
key upon him, and left him to solitude and his own reflections.

"Did my little daughter think papa had quite forgotten his promise?"
asked Mr. Horace Dinsmore, as again he stood by Elsie's couch.

"No, papa," she said, raising her eyes to his face with a grateful,
loving look; "it seemed very long, but I knew you would come as soon as
you could, for I know you never break your word."

Her confidence pleased him very much, and with a very gratified look he
asked whether he should sit by her side or take her again upon his knee.

"Take me on your knee again, if you please, papa," she said, "and then
will you read a little to me? I would like it so much."

"I will do anything that will give my little girl pleasure," he replied,
as he once more lifted her gently, and placed her in the desired
position.

"What shall the book be?" he asked; "one of the new ones I bought you the
other day?"

"Not that, to-night; if you please, papa; I would rather hear a little
from an old book," she answered, with a sweet smile lighting tip her
little pale face; "won't you please read me the fifty-third chapter of
Isaiah?"

"If you wish it, dearest; but I think something lively would be much
better; more likely to cheer you up."

"No, dear papa; there is nothing cheers me up like the Bible, it is so
sweet and comforting. I do so love to hear of Jesus, how he bore our
griefs and carried our sorrows."

"You are a strange child," he said, "but you shall have whatever you want
to-night. Hand me that Bible, Aunt Chloe, and set the light a little
nearer."

Mr. Dinsmore was an uncommonly fine reader, and Elsie lay listening to
that beautiful passage of Holy Writ, as one might listen to strains of
the softest, sweetest music.

"Now, dear papa, the twenty-third of Luke, if you please," she said, when
he had finished.

He turned to it, and read it without any remark.

As he closed the book and laid it aside, he saw that tears were trembling
on the long, silken lashes that rested on the fair young cheek; for her
eyes were closed, and but for those tell-tale drops he would have thought
her sleeping.

"I feared it would make you sad, darling," he said, brushing them away,
and kissing her fondly.

"No, dear papa, _oh, no_!" she answered, earnestly; "thank you very much
for reading it; it has made me feel a great deal better."

"Why did you select those particular passages?" he asked, with some
curiosity.

"Because, papa, they are all about Jesus, and tell how meekly and
patiently he bore sorrow and suffering. Oh, papa, if I could only be
like him! I am not much like him, but it makes it easier to forgive and
to be patient, and kind, and gentle, when we read about him, how good he
was, and how he forgave his murderers."

"You are thinking of Arthur," he said. "_I_ shall find it very hard to
forgive him; can _you_ do so?"

"Yes, papa, I think I can. I have been praying for him, and have asked
God to help me to forgive and love him."

"He has treated you very badly; I know all about it now."

And then, in answer to her surprised, inquiring look, he proceeded to
give her an account of all that had taken place that evening in the
library and drawing-room.

"And he hates me, papa," she said, mournfully, the tears filling her
eyes; "why should he feel so? I have always tried to be kind to him."

"Yes, I know it," he replied, "you have often done him kindnesses, and
I know of no other cause for his enmity, unless it is that you have
sometimes been obliged to bear witness against him."

"Yes, papa, on several occasions when he was putting all the blame of his
naughty deeds on little Walter, or poor Jim."

"You were perfectly right," he said, caressing her; "and he will not have
another opportunity to vent his spite upon you, as he is to be sent away
to boarding-school immediately."

"Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, "I am so sorry for him, poor fellow! It must
be so dismal to go off alone among strangers. Dear papa, _do_ ask grandpa
to forgive him, just this once; and I don't believe he will ever behave
so again."

"No, daughter, I shall not do anything of the kind," he answered,
decidedly. "I think it will be for Arthur's own good to be sent away,
where he will not have his mother to spoil him by indulgence; and
besides, I cannot feel that _you_ are safe while he is about the house,
and I consider it my first duty to take care of you; therefore, I have
insisted upon its that either _he_ must be sent away, or you and I must
go and make a home for ourselves somewhere else."

"Oh, papa, how delightful that would be, to have a home of our own!" she
exclaimed eagerly; "_will_ you do it some day?"

"Should you like it so much?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, papa, so very, _very_ much! When will you do it, papa?"

"I don't know, darling; some day, if we both live; perhaps when you are
old enough to be my housekeeper."

"But that will be such a long, long time to wait, papa," she said--the
eager, joyous expression fading away from her face, and the pale, wearied
look coming back again.

"Perhaps we will not wait for that, darling; I did not say that we
would," he replied, in a soothing tone, as he passed his hand caressingly
over her hair and cheek.

Then he added, a little mischievously, "I think, possibly, I might induce
Miss Stevens to keep house for us. Shall I ask her?"

"Oh, papa, no; that would spoil it all," she said, with a blush and a
look of surprise; "and besides, I'm sure Miss Stevens would feel insulted
if anybody should ask her to go out as housekeeper."

"No, I think not, if _I_ asked her," laughed Mr. Dinsmore; "but you need
not be alarmed; I have no notion of doing it.

"Now, daughter, I shall bathe your ankle with that liniment again, and
put you in bed, and you must try to go to sleep."

"My prayers first, papa, you know," she replied, making an effort to get
down upon the floor.

But he held her fast.

"No, daughter, you are not able to kneel to-night," he said, "and
therefore it is not required; the posture makes but little difference,
since God looks not at it, but at your heart."

"I know that, papa, but I ought to kneel if I can; and if I may, I would
much rather try."

"No, I shall not allow you to do so; it would not be right," he replied
decidedly; "you may say them here, while I have you in my arms, or after
I have put you in bed."

"Then I will say them in my bed, papa," she answered submissively.

She was very patient and quiet while her father and nurse dressed her
ankle, and prepared her for bed, and when he had laid her in and covered
her up, he sat down beside her and listened to the low, murmured words of
her prayer.

"I think you prayed for me as well as for Arthur," he remarked when she
had done; "what did you request for me?"

"I asked, as I always do, that you might love Jesus, papa, and be very
happy, indeed, both in this world and the next."

"Thank you," he said, "but why are you so anxious that I should love him?
It would not trouble _me_ if _you_ did not, so long as you loved and
obeyed me."

A tear trickled down her cheek and fell upon the pillow as she answered,
in a half tremulous tone: "Because I know, papa, that no one can go to
heaven who does not love Jesus, nor ever be really happy anywhere, for
the Bible says so. Papa, you always punish me when I am disobedient to
you, and the Bible says God is our Father and will punish us if we do not
obey him; and one of his commands is: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God;
and in another place it says: Every one that loveth him that begat loveth
him also that is begotten of him."

He did not reply, and his countenance was almost stern in its deep
gravity.

Elsie feared she had displeased him.

"Dear papa," she said, stretching out her little hand to him, "I am
afraid I have said things to you that I ought not; are you angry with
me?"

"No, daughter," he replied, as he bent down and kissed her cheek; "but
you must not talk any more to-night. I want you to shut your eyes and go
to sleep."

She threw her arm around his neck and returned his caress, saying,
"Good-night, dear, _dear_ papa; I do love you _so_ much;" then turned
away her face, shut her eyes, and in a few moments was sleeping sweetly.

The next morning quite a number of the little folks begged leave to go
in after breakfast to see Elsie, and as she seemed much better--indeed,
quite well, except that she could not put her foot to the floor--Mr.
Dinsmore gave a ready consent.

They found Elsie dressed and lying upon a sofa, with the lame foot on a
pillow. She seemed very glad to see them, looked as smiling and cheerful
as if nothing ailed her; and to all their condolences replied that she
did not mind it very much; she was doing nicely--papa and everybody else
was so kind--and the doctor said he hoped she would be able to run about
again in a few weeks.

They were all around her, talking and laughing in a very animated way,
when Mr. Dinsmore came in, and going up to her couch, said, "Elsie,
daughter, I have an errand to the city this morning; but, as I have
promised to give you all you want of my company to-day, I will commission
some one else to do it, if you are not willing to spare me for a couple
of hours; do you think you could do without your papa that long? It shall
be just as you say."

"You know I love dearly to have you by me, papa," she answered, smiling
up into his face; "but I will be quite satisfied with whatever you do,
because you always know best."

"Spoken like my own little girl," he said, patting her cheek. "Well, then
I will leave these little folks to entertain you for a short time; and I
think you will not be sorry, when I return, that you left it to me to do
as I think best. Kiss papa good-bye, darling. Aunt Chloe, take good care
of her, and don't let her be _fatigued_ with company."

He turned to look at her again, as he reached the door, and Elsie gaily
kissed her hand to him.

Before long, Chloe, seeing that her young charge was beginning to look
weary, sent away all the little folks except Herbert, who, at Elsie's
request, remained with her, and seated in her little rocking-chair,
close by her side, did his best to amuse her and make her forget her
pain, sometimes reading aloud to her, and sometimes stopping to talk.

Many an hour Elsie had spent by his couch of suffering, reading, talking
or singing to him, and he rejoiced now in the opportunity afforded him to
return some of her past kindness.

They had always been fond of each other's society, too, and the time
passed so quickly and pleasantly that Mr. Dinsmore's return, only a very
little sooner than he had promised, took them quite by surprise.

Herbert noticed that he had a bundle in his hand, and thinking it was
probably some present for Elsie, and that they might like to be alone,
slipped quietly away to his mamma's room.

"What is that, papa?" Elsie asked.

"A New Year's gift for my little girl," he answered, with a smile, as he
laid it down by her side. "But I know you are tired lying there; so I
will take you on my knee, and then you shall open it."

She looked quite as eager and interested as he could have wished, as he
settled her comfortably on his knee, and laid the bundle in her lap. Her
hands trembled with excitement and haste, as she untied the string, and
with an exclamation of joyful surprise, brought to light a large and very
beautiful wax doll.

"Oh, _papa_, how _pretty_!" she cried, in ecstasy. "And it is as large
as a real, live baby, and has such a sweet, dear little face, and such
pretty little hands, just like a real baby's--and the dearest little
toes, too," she added, kissing them. "I love it already, the little dear!
and how prettily it is dressed, too, like a little baby-girl."

He enjoyed her pleasure intensely.

"But you have not come to the bottom of your bundle yet," he said; "see
here!" and he showed her quite a pile of remnants of beautiful lawns,
muslins, silk, etc., which he had bought to be made up into clothing for
the doll.

"I did not buy them ready made," he said, "because I thought you would
enjoy making them yourself."

"Oh, how nice, papa. Yes, indeed, I shall enjoy it, and you are so _very_
good and kind to me," she said, holding up her face for a kiss. "Now,
with you beside me, and plenty to do making pretty things for this dear
new dolly, I think I shall hardly mind at all having to stay in the house
and keep still. I'll call her Rose, papa, mayn't I? for dear Miss
Allison."

"Call it what you like, darling; it is all your own," he replied,
laughing at the question.

"I'm its mother, ain't I?--and then you must be its grandfather!" she
exclaimed, with a merry laugh, in which he joined her heartily.

"You ought to have some gray hairs, papa, like other grandfathers," she
went on, running her fingers through his hair. "Do you know, papa, Carry
Howard says she thinks it is so funny for me to have such a young father;
she says you don't look a bit older than her brother Edward, who has just
come home from college. How old are you, papa?"

"You are not quite nine, and I am just about eighteen years older; can
you make that out now?"

"Twenty-seven," she answered, after a moment's thought; then, shaking her
head a little, "that's pretty old, I think, after all. But I'm glad you
haven't got gray hairs and wrinkles, like Carry's papa," she added,
putting her arms around his neck, and laying her head down on his breast.
"I think it is nice to have such a young, handsome father."

"I think it is very nice to have a dear little daughter to love me," he
said, pressing her to his heart.

Elsie was eager to show her new doll to Carry and Lucy, and presently
sent Chloe to invite them to pay her another visit.

"Bring Mary Leslie, too, mammy, if she will come; but be sure not to tell
any of them what I have got," she said.

Chloe found them all three in the little back parlor, looking as if
they did not know what to do with themselves, and Elsie's invitation
was hailed with smiles and exclamations of delight.

They all admired the doll extremely, and Carry, who had a great taste
for cutting and fitting, seized upon the pile of silks and muslins,
exclaiming eagerly, that she should like no better fun than to help
Elsie make some dresses.

"Oh, yes!" cried Lucy, "let us all help, for once in my life I'm tired to
death of play, and I'd like to sit down quietly and work at these pretty
things."

"I, too," said Mary, "if Elsie is willing to trust us not to spoil them,"

"Indeed, _I'll_ not spoil them, Miss Mary; I've made more dolls' clothes
than a few," remarked Carry, with a little toss of her head.

"I am not at all afraid to trust you, Carry, nor the others either,"
Elsie hastened to say; "and shall be very glad of your assistance."

Work-boxes were now quickly produced, and scissors and thimbles set in
motion.

Mr. Dinsmore withdrew to the other side of the room, and took up a book;
thus relieving the little ladies from the constraint of his presence,
while at the same time he could keep an eye upon Elsie, and see that she
did not over-fatigue herself with company or work.

"What a nice time we have had," remarked Mary Leslie, folding up her
work as the dinner-bell rang. "May we come back this afternoon, Elsie?
I'd like to finish this apron, and I'm to go home to-morrow."

Mr. Dinsmore answered for his little girl, "When Elsie has had an hour to
rest, Miss Mary, she will be glad to see you all again."

"Yes, do come, girls," Elsie added, "if you are not tired of work. I am
sorry that you must go to-morrow, Mary. Carry and Lucy, _you_ are not to
leave us so soon, are you?"

"No," they both replied, "we stay till Saturday afternoon. And intend to
make dolly two or three dresses before we go, if her mother will let us,"
Carry added, laughingly, as she put away her thimble and ran after the
others.

All the guests left the next morning, excepting the Carringtons and
Caroline Howard, and the house seemed very quiet--even in Elsie's room,
where the little girls were sewing--while Harry and Herbert took turns in
reading aloud; and in this way they passed the remainder of their visit
very pleasantly, indeed.

Elsie felt her confinement more when Sabbath morning came, and she could
not go to church, than she had at all before. Her father offered to stay
at home with her, remarking that she must feel very lonely now that all
her little mates were gone; but she begged him to go to church, saying
that she could employ herself in reading while he was away, and that
would keep her from being lonely, and then they could have all the
afternoon and evening together. So he kissed her good-bye, and left her
in Chloe's care.

She was sitting on his knee that evening; she had been singing hymns--he
accompanying her sweet treble with his deep bass notes; then for a while
she had talked to him in her own simple, childlike way, of what she had
been reading in her Bible and the "Pilgrim's Progress," asking him a
question now and then, which, with all his learning and worldly wisdom,
he was scarcely as capable of answering as herself. But now she had been
for some minutes sitting perfectly silent, her head resting upon his
breast, and her eyes cast down, as if in deep thought,

He had been studying with some curiosity the expression of the little
face, which was much graver than its wont, and at length he startled her
from her reverie with the question, "What is my little girl thinking
about?"

"I was thinking, papa, that if you will let me, I should like very much
to give Arthur a nice present before he goes away. May I?"

"You may if you wish," he said, stroking her hair.

"Oh, thank you, papa," she answered joyously, "I was half afraid you
would not let me; then, if you please, won't you, the next time you go to
the city, buy the very handsomest pocket Bible you can find?--and then,
if you will write his name and mine in it, and that it is a token of
affection from me, I will be so much obliged to you, dear papa."

"I will do so, daughter, but I am afraid Arthur will not feel much
gratitude to you for such a present."

"Perhaps he may like it pretty well, papa, if it is _very handsomely_
bound," she said, rather doubtfully; "at any rate I should like to try.
When does he go, papa?"

"Day after to-morrow, I believe."

"I wish he would come in for a few minutes to see me, and say good-bye;
do you think he will, papa?"

"I am afraid not," replied her father, shaking his head; "however, I will
ask him. But why do you wish to see him?"

"I want to tell him that I am not at all vexed or angry with him, and
that I feel very sorry for him, because he is obliged to go away all
alone amongst strangers, poor fellow!" she sighed.

"You need not waste any sympathy on him, my dear," said her father, "for
I think he rather likes the idea of going off to school."

"Does he, papa? Why, how strange!" exclaimed the little girl, lost in
astonishment.

As Mr. Dinsmore had predicted, Arthur utterly refused to go near Elsie;
and, at first, seemed disposed to decline her gift; but at length, on
Lora suggesting that he might require a Bible for some of his school
exercises, he accepted it, as Elsie had thought he might, on account of
the handsome binding.

Elsie was hurt and disappointed that he would not come to see her; she
shed a few quiet tears over his refusal, because she thought it showed
that he still disliked her, and then wrote him a little note, breathing
forgiveness, sisterly affection, and regard for his welfare. But the note
was not answered, and Arthur went away without showing any signs of
sorrow for his unkind treatment of her; nor, indeed, for any of his bad
conduct.

Miss Day had returned, and the rest of her pupils now resumed their
studies; but Elsie was, of course, quite unable to attend in the
school-room, as her ankle was not yet in a condition to be used in the
least. Her father said nothing to her about lessons, but allowed her to
amuse herself as she liked with reading, or working for the doll. She,
however, was growing weary of play, and wanted to go back to her books.

"Papa," she said to him one morning, "I am quite well now, excepting my
lameness, and you are with me a great deal every day, may I not learn my
lessons and recite them to you?"

"Certainly, daughter, if you wish it," he replied, looking much pleased;
"I shall consider it no trouble, but, on the contrary, a very great
pleasure to teach you, if you learn your lessons well, as I am sure you
will."

Elsie promised to be diligent, and from that day she went on with her
studies as regularly as if she had been in school with the others.

She felt her confinement very much at times, and had a great longing for
the time when she could again mount her pony, and take long rides and
walks in the sweet fresh air; but she was not often lonely, for her papa
managed to be with her a great deal, and she never cared for any other
companion when he was by. Then, Mr. Travilla came in frequently to see
her, and always brought a beautiful bouquet, or some fine fruit from his
hot-house, or some other little nicety to tempt an invalid's appetite, or
what she liked, even better still, a new book. Her aunts Adelaide and
Lora, too, felt very kindly toward her, coming in occasionally to ask how
she was, and to tell her what was going on in the house; and sometimes
Walter brought his book to ask her to help him with his lessons, which
she was always ready to do, and then he would sit and talk a while,
telling her what had occurred in the school-room, or in their walks or
rides, and expressing his regret on account of the accident that
prevented her from joining them as usual.

Her doll, too, was a great source of amusement to her, and she valued
it very highly, and was so extremely careful of it that she hardly
felt willing to trust it out of her own hands, lest it should be broken.
Especially was she annoyed when Enna, who was a very careless child,
wished to take it; but it was a dangerous thing to refuse Enna's
requests, except when Mr. Dinsmore was by, and so Elsie always endeavored
to get the doll out of sight when she heard her coming.

But one unfortunate afternoon Enna came in quite unexpectedly, just as
Elsie finished dressing it in a new suit, which she had completed only a
few moments before.

"Oh, Elsie, how pretty it looks!" she cried. "Do let me take it on my lap
a little while. I won't hurt it a bit."

Elsie reluctantly consented, begging her to be very careful, "because,
Enna," she said, "you know if you should let it fall, it would certainly
be broken."

"You needn't be afraid," replied Enna, pettishly, "I guess I can take
care of a doll as well as you."

She drew up Elsie's little rocking-chair, as she spoke, and taking the
doll from her, sat down with it in her arms.

Elsie watched nervously every movement she made, in momentary dread of a
catastrophe.

They were alone in the room, Chloe having gone down to the kitchen on
some errand.

For a few moments Enna was content to hold the doll quietly in her arms,
rocking backwards and forwards, singing to it; but ere long she laid it
down on her lap, and began fastening and unfastening its clothes, pulling
off its shoes and stockings to look at its feet--dropping them on the
floor, and stooping to pick them up again, at the same time holding the
doll in such a careless manner that Elsie expected every instant to see
it scattered in fragments on the floor.

In vain she remonstrated with Enna, and begged her to be more careful;
it only vexed her and made her more reckless; and at length Elsie sprang
from her couch and caught the doll, just in time to save it, but in so
doing gave her ankle a terrible wrench.

She almost fainted with the pain, and Enna, frightened at her pale face,
jumped up and ran out of the room, leaving her alone.

She had hardly strength to get back on to her couch; and when her father
came in, a moment after, he found her holding her ankle in both hands,
while the tears forced from her by the pain were streaming down over her
pale cheeks.

"Why, my poor darling, what is it?" he exclaimed, in a tone of mingled
surprise and alarm.

"Oh, papa," she sobbed, "Enna was going to let my doll fall, and I jumped
to catch it, and hurt my ankle."

"And what did you do it for?" he said angrily. "I would rather have
bought you a dozen such dolls than have had your ankle hurt again. It
may cripple you for life, yet, if you are not more careful."

"Oh, papa, please don't scold me, please don't be so angry with me," she
sobbed. "I didn't have a minute to think, and I won't do it again."

He made no reply, but busied himself in doing what he could to relieve
her pain; and Chloe coming in at that moment, he reproved her sharply for
leaving the child alone.

The old nurse took it very meekly, far more disturbed at seeing how her
child was suffering than she could have been by the severest rebuke
administered to herself. She silently assisted Mr. Dinsmore in his
efforts to relieve her; and at length, as Elsie's tears ceased to flow,
and the color began to come back to her cheeks, she asked, in a tone full
of loving sympathy, "Is you better now, darlin'?"

"Yes, mammy, thank you; the pain is nearly all gone now," Elsie answered
gently; and then the soft eyes were raised pleadingly to her father's
face.

"I'm not angry with you, daughter," he replied, drawing her head down to
his breast, and kissing her tenderly. "It was only my great love for my
little girl that made me feel so vexed that she should have been hurt in
trying to save a paltry toy."

After this Mr. Dinsmore gave orders that Enna should never be permitted
to enter Elsie's room in his absence, and thus she was saved all further
annoyance of that kind; and Chloe was careful never to leave her alone
again until she was quite well, and able to run about. That, however, was
not for several weeks longer, for this second injury had retarded her
recovery a good deal; and she began to grow very weary, indeed, of her
long confinement. At length, though, she was able to walk about her room
a little, and her father had several times taken her out in the carriage,
to get the fresh air, as he said.

It was Saturday afternoon. Elsie was sitting on her sofa, quietly
working, while her nurse sat on the other side of the room, knitting
busily, as usual.

"Oh, mammy!" exclaimed the little girl, with sigh, "it is such a long,
long time since I have been to church. How I wish papa would let me go
to-morrow! Do you think he would, if I should ask him?"

"Dunno, darlin'! I'se 'fraid not," replied the old woman, shaking her
head doubtfully. "Massa Horace berry careful ob you, an' dat ankle not
well yet."

"Oh! but, mammy, I wouldn't need to walk, excepting just across the
church, for you know papa could carry me down to the carriage," said the
little girl eagerly.

Mr. Dinsmore came in soon afterwards, and, greeting his little girl
affectionately, sat down beside her, and, taking a newspaper from his
pocket, began to read.

"Papa, mayn't I sit on your knee?" she asked softly, as he paused in his
reading to turn his paper.

He smiled, and without speaking lifted her to the desired position, then
went on reading.

She waited patiently until there was another slight pause; then asked in
her most coaxing tone, "Papa, may I go to church to-morrow?"

"No," he said, decidedly, and she dared not say another word; but she was
sadly disappointed, and the tears sprang to her eyes, and presently one
rolled down and fell upon her lap.

He saw it, and giving her a glance of mingled surprise and displeasure,
put her back upon the sofa again, and returned to his paper.

She burst into sobs and tears at that, and laying her head down upon the
cushion, cried bitterly.

Her father took no notice for a little while; then said, very gravely,
"Elsie, if you are crying because I have put you off my knee, that is not
the way to get back again. I must have _cheerful_ submission from my
little girl, and it was precisely _because_ you were crying that I put
you down."

"Please take me again, papa, and I won't cry any more," she answered,
wiping her eyes.

He took her in his arms again, and she nestled close to him, and laid her
head down on his breast with a sigh of satisfaction.

"You _must_ learn not to cry when I do not see fit to acquiesce in your
wishes, my daughter," he said, stroking her hair. "I do not think you
quite well enough yet to go to church; and to-morrow bids fair to be a
stormy day. But I hope by next Sabbath you may be able to go."

Elsie tried to submit cheerfully to her father's decision, but she looked
forward very anxiously all the week to the next Sabbath. When it came, to
her great delight, she was permitted to attend church, and the next
morning she took her place in the school-room again.

She was far from enjoying the change from her father's instruction
to Miss Day's; yet Arthur's absence rendered her situation far more
comfortable than it had formerly been, and she still continued several
studies with her father, and spent many happy hours with him every day.
And thus everything moved on quite smoothly with the little girl during
the remainder of the winter.




CHAPTER IV.

"Remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy."
    Exod. 10:6.

"We ought to obey God rather than men."
    Acts 5:29.


"Dear papa, are you sick?" It was Elsie's sweet voice that asked the
question in a tone of alarm. She had just finished her morning lessons,
and coming into her father's room, had found him lying on the sofa,
looking flushed and feverish.

"Yes, daughter," he said, "I have a severe headache, and some fever, I
think. But don't be alarmed, my pet, 'tis nothing at all serious," he
added in a more cheerful tone, taking both her little hands in his, and
gazing fondly into the beautiful dark eyes, now filled with tears.

"You will let me be your little nurse, my own dear papa, will you not?"
she asked coaxingly. "May I bring some cool water and bathe your head?"

"Yes, darling, you may," he said, releasing her hands.

Elsie stole softly out of the room, but was back again almost in a
moment, followed by Chloe, bearing a pitcher of ice-water.

"Now, mammy, please bring a basin and napkin from the dressing-room," she
said, in a low tone, as the old nurse set down her burden. "And then you
may darken the room a little. And shall I not tell her to send Jim or
Jack for the doctor, papa?"

"It is hardly necessary, darling," he replied, with a faint smile.

"Oh! please, papa, my own dear, darling papa, do let me!" she entreated.
"You know it cannot do any harm, and may do a great deal of good."

"Ah! well, child, do as you like," he replied with a weary sigh; "but the
doctor will, no doubt, think me very foolish to be so easily frightened."

"Then, papa, I will tell him it was I, not you, who were frightened, and
that you sent for him to please your silly little daughter," Elsie said,
fondly laying her cheek to his, while he passed his arm around her, and
pressed her to his side.

"Here are de tings, darlin'," said Chloe, setting down the basin, and
filling it from the pitcher.

"That is right, you good old mammy. Now close the blinds, and then
you may go and tell Jim to saddle a horse and ride after the doctor
immediately."

Chloe left the room, and Elsie brought another pillow for her father,
smoothed his hair, bathed his forehead, and then, drawing a low chair to
the side of the sofa, sat down and fanned him gently and regularly.

"Why!" said he, in a gratified tone, "you are as nice a little nurse as
anybody need ask for; you move about so gently, and seem to know just the
right thing to do. How did you learn?"

"I have had bad headaches so often myself, papa, that I have found out
what one wants at such times," replied the little girl, coloring with
pleasure.

He closed his eyes and seemed to be sleeping, and Elsie almost held her
breath, lest she should disturb him. But presently the dinner-bell rang,
and, opening them again, he said, "Go down, my daughter, and get your
dinner."

"I am not hungry, papa," she replied. "Please let me stay and wait on
you. Won't you have something to eat?"

"No, my dear, I have no desire for food; and you see, Chloe is coming
to take care of me; so I wish you to go down at once," he said in his
decided tone, and Elsie instantly rose to obey.

"You may come back if you choose when you have eaten your dinner," he
added kindly. "I love to have you here."

"Thank you, papa, I will," she answered, with a brightened countenance,
as she left the room. She was soon in her place again by his side. He
was sleeping--and taking the fan from Chloe's hand without speaking,
she motioned her away, and resuming her seat, sat for an hour or more,
fanning him in perfect silence.

The physician had come while the family were at dinner, and leaving
some medicine, had gone again, saying he was in haste to visit another
patient; and assuring Elsie, whom he met in the hall as he was going out,
that he did not think her papa was going to be very ill. This assurance
had comforted her very much, and she felt quite happy while sitting there
watching her father's slumbers.

At length he opened his eyes, and smiling fondly on her, asked: "Does
not my little girl want some play this afternoon? Your little hand must
surely be very tired wielding that fan;" and taking it from her, he drew
her head down to his breast and stroked her hair caressingly.

"No, my own papa, I would much rather stay with you, if you will let me,"
she answered eagerly.

"I am afraid I _ought_ to be very determined, and send you out to take
some exercise," he replied, playfully running his fingers through her
curls; "but it is too pleasant to have you here, so you may stay if you
like."

"Oh, thank you, dear papa! and will you let me wait on you? What can I do
for you now?"

"You may bring that book that lies on the table there, and read to me.
You need not learn any lessons for to-morrow, for I intend to keep you
with me."

The next day, and the next, and for many succeeding ones, Mr. Dinsmore
was quite too ill to leave his bed, and during all this time Elsie was
his constant companion by day--except for an hour every afternoon, when
he compelled her to go out and take some exercise in the open air--and
she would have sat by his side at night, also, but he would by no means
permit it.

"No, Elsie," he replied to her repeated entreaties, "you must go to bed
every night at your usual hour, and stay there until your accustomed hour
for rising. I will not have you deprived of your rest unless I am
actually dying."

This was said in the determined tone that always silenced Elsie at once,
and she submitted to his decision without another word, feeling very
thankful that he kept her so constantly at his side through the day.
She proved herself the best and most attentive of nurses, seeming to
understand his wishes intuitively, and moving about so gently and
quietly--never hurried, never impatient, never weary of attending to
his wants. His eyes followed with fond delight her little figure as
it flitted noiselessly about the room, now here, now there, arranging
everything for his comfort; and often, as she returned to her station
at his side, he would draw her down to him, and stroke her hair, or pat
her cheek, or kiss the rosy lips, calling her by every fond, endearing
name--rose-bud--his pet--his bird--his darling.

It was she who bathed his head with her cool, soft hands, in his
paroxysms of fever, smoothed his hair, shook up his pillows, gave him his
medicines, fanned him, and read or sang to him, in her clear sweet tones.

He was scarcely considered in danger, but his sickness was tedious, and
would have seemed far more so without the companionship of his little
daughter. Every day seemed to draw the ties of affection more closely
between them; yet, fond as he was of her, he ever made her feel that his
will was always to be law to her; and while he required nothing contrary
to her conscience, she submitted without a murmur, both because she loved
him so well that it was a pleasure to obey him, and also because she knew
it was her duty to do so.

But, alas! duty was not always to be so easy and pleasant.

It was Sabbath morning. All the family had gone to church, excepting
Elsie, who, as usual, sat by her papa's bedside. She had her Bible in
her hand, and was reading aloud.

"There, Elsie, that will do now," he said, as she finished her chapter.
"Go and get the book you were reading to me yesterday. I wish to hear the
rest of it this morning."

Poor little Elsie! she rose to her feet, but stood irresolute. Her heart
beat fast, her color came and went by turns, and her eyes filled with
tears.

The book her father bade her read to him was simply a fictitious
moral tale, without a particle of religious truth in it, and, Elsie's
conscience told her, entirely unfit for Sabbath reading.

"Elsie!" exclaimed her father, in a tone of mingled reproof and surprise,
"did you hear me?"

"Yes, papa," she murmured, in a low tone.

"Then go at once and get the book, as I bid you; it lies yonder on the
dressing-table."

Elsie moved slowly across the room, her father looking after her somewhat
impatiently.

"Come, Elsie, make haste," he said, as she laid her hand upon the book.
"I think I never saw you move so slowly,"

Without replying she took it up and returned to the bedside. Then, as he
caught sight of her face, and saw that her cheeks were pale and wet with
tears, he exclaimed, "What, _crying_, Elsie! what ails you, my daughter?
Are you ill, darling?"

His tone was one of tender solicitude, and accompanied with a caress, as
he took her hand and drew her towards him.

"Oh, papa!" she sobbed, laying her head on the pillow beside him, "please
do not ask me to read that book to-day."

He did not reply for a moment, and when he did, Elsie was startled by the
change in his tone; it was so exceedingly stern and severe.

"Elsie," he said, "I do not _ask_ you to read that book, I _command_ you
to do it, and what is more, _I intend to be obeyed_. Sit down at once and
begin, and let me have no more of this perverseness."

"Dear papa," she answered in low, pleading, trembling tones, "I do not,
_indeed_, I do not want to be perverse and disobedient, but I cannot
break the Sabbath-day. _Please_, papa, let me finish it to-morrow."

"Elsie!" said he, in a tone a little less severe, but quite as
determined, "I see that you think that because you gained your point in
relation to that song that you will always be allowed to do as you like
in such matters; but you are mistaken; I am _determined_ to be obeyed
this time. I would not by any means bid you do anything I considered
wrong, but I can see no harm whatever in reading that book to-day;
and certainly I, who have lived so much longer, am far more capable
of judging in these matters than a little girl of your age. Why, my
daughter, I have seen ministers reading worse books than that on the
Sabbath."

"But, papa," she replied timidly, "you know the Bible says: 'They
measuring themselves by themselves, and comparing themselves among
themselves, are not wise;' and are we not just to do whatever God
commands, without stopping to ask what other people do or say? for
don't even the best people very often do wrong?"

"Very well; find me a text that says you are not to read such a book as
this on the Sabbath, and I will let you wait until to-morrow."

Elsie hesitated. "I cannot find one that says just _that_, papa," she
said, "but there is one that says we are not to think our own thoughts,
nor speak our own words on the Sabbath; and does not that mean worldly
thoughts and words? and is not that book full of such things, and only
of such?"

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "let me hear no more of such
stuff! you are entirely too young and childish to attempt to reason on
such subjects. Your place is simply to obey; are you going to do it?"

"Oh, papa!" she murmured, almost under her breath, "I cannot."

"Elsie," said he, in a tone of great anger, "I should certainly be
greatly tempted to whip you into submission, had I the strength to do
it."

Elsie answered only by her tears and sobs.

There was silence for a moment, and then her father said: "Elsie, I
expect from my daughter entire, unquestioning obedience, and until you
are ready to render it, I shall cease to treat you as my child. I shall
banish you from my presence, and my affections. This is the alternative I
set before you. I will give you ten minutes to consider it. At the end of
that time, if you are ready to obey me, well and good--if not, you will
leave this room, not to enter it again until you are ready to acknowledge
your fault, ask forgiveness, and promise implicit obedience in the
future."

A low cry of utter despair broke from Elsie's lips, as she thus heard her
sentence pronounced in tones of calm, stern determination; and, hiding
her face on the bed, she sobbed convulsively.

Her father lifted his watch from a little stand by the bedside, and held
it in his hand until the ten minutes expired.

"The time is up, Elsie," he said; "are you ready to obey me?"

"Oh, papa!" she sobbed, "I cannot do it."

"Very well, then," he said, coldly; "if neither your sense of duty, nor
your affection for your sick father is strong enough to overcome your
self-will, you know what you have to do. Leave the room at once, and
send one of the servants to attend me. I will not have such a perverse,
disobedient child in my presence."

She raised her head, and he was touched by the look of anguish on her
face.

"My daughter," he said, drawing her to him, and pushing back the curls
from her face, "this separation will be as painful to me as to you; yet I
cannot yield my authority. I _must_ have obedience from you. I ask again,
will you obey me?"

He waited a moment for an answer; but Elsie's heart was too full for
speech.

Pushing her from him, he said: "Go! remember, whenever you are ready to
comply with the conditions, you may return; but _not till then_!"

Elsie seized his hand in both of hers, and covered it with kisses and
tears; then, without a word, turned and left the room.

He looked after her with a sigh, muttering to himself, "She has a spice
of my own obstinacy in her nature; but I think a few days' banishment
from me will bring her round. I am punishing myself quite as much,
however, for it will be terribly hard to do without her."

Elsie hastened to her own room, almost distracted with grief; the blow
had been so sudden, so unexpected, so terrible; for she could see no end
to her banishment; unless, indeed, a change should take place in her
father's feelings, and of that she had very little hope.

Flinging herself upon a couch, she wept long and bitterly. Her grief was
deep and despairing, but there was no anger in it; on the contrary, her
heart was filled with intense love to her father, who, she doubted not,
was acting from a mistaken sense of duty; and she could scarcely bear the
thought that now she should no longer be permitted to wait upon him, and
attend to his comfort. She had sent a servant to him, but a servant could
ill supply a daughter's place, and her heart ached to think how he would
miss her sympathy and love.

An hour passed slowly away; the family returned from church, and the bell
rang for dinner. But Elsie heeded it not; she had no desire for food, and
still lay sobbing on her couch, till Chloe came to ask why she did not go
down.

The faithful creature was much surprised and distressed at the state in
which she found her child, and raising her in her arms tenderly, inquired
into the cause of her grief.

Elsie told her in a few words, and Chloe, without finding any fault with
Mr. Dinsmore, strove to comfort the sorrowing child, assuring her of her
own unalterable affection, and talking to her of the love of Jesus, who
would help her to hear every trial, and in his own good time remove it.

Elsie grew calmer as she listened to her nurse's words; her sobs and
tears gradually ceased, and at length she allowed Chloe to bathe her
face, and smooth her disordered hair and dress; but she refused to eat,
and lay on her couch all the afternoon, with a very sad little face, a
sob now and then bursting from her bosom, and a tear trickling down her
cheek. When the tea-bell rang, she reluctantly yielded to Chloe's
persuasions, and went down. But it was a sad, uncomfortable meal to her,
for she soon perceived, from the cold and averted looks of the whole
family, that the cause of her banishment from her papa's room was known.
Even her Aunt Adelaide, who was usually so kind, now seemed determined
to take no notice of her, and before the meal was half over, Enna,
frowning at her across the table, exclaimed in a loud, angry tone,
"Naughty, bad girl! Brother Horace ought to whip you!"

"That he ought," added her grandfather, severely, "if he had the strength
to do it; but he is not likely to gain it, while worried with such a
perverse, disobedient child."

Elsie could not swallow another mouthful, for the choking sensation in
her throat; and it cost her a hard struggle to keep back the tears that
seemed determined to force their way down her cheek at Enna's unkind
speech; but the concluding sentence of her grandfather's remark caused
her to start and tremble with fear on her father's account; yet she
could not command her voice sufficiently to speak and ask if he were
worse.

There was, indeed, a very unfavorable change in Mr. Dinsmore, and he was
really more alarmingly ill than he had been at all. Elsie's resistance
to his authority had excited him so much as to bring on a return of his
fever; her absence fretted him, too, for no one else seemed to understand
quite as well how to wait upon him; and besides, he was not altogether
satisfied with himself; not entirely sure that the course he had adopted
was the right one. Could he only have got rid of all doubts of the
righteousness and justice of the sentence he had pronounced upon her, it
would have been a great relief. He was very proud, a man of indomitable
will, and very jealous of his authority; and between these on the one
hand, and his love for his child and desire for her presence, on the
other, a fierce struggle had been raging in his breast all the afternoon.

As soon as she dared leave the table Elsie stole out into the garden,
there to indulge her grief, unseen by any but the eye of God.

She paced up and down her favorite walk, weeping and sobbing bitterly.
Presently her attention was attracted by the galloping of a horse down
the avenue, and raising her head, she saw that it was the physician,
returning from a visit to her father. It was not his usual hour for
calling, and she at once conjectured that her father was worse. Her first
impulse was to hasten to him, but instantly came the recollection that he
had banished her from his presence, and sinking down upon a bank, she
burst into a fresh paroxysm of grief. It was so hard--so _very_ hard--to
know that he was ill and suffering, and not to be permitted to go to him.

At length she could bear it no longer, and springing up she hurried into
the house, and gliding softly up the stairs, stationed herself at her
papa's door, determined to intercept some one passing in or out, and
inquire how he was.

She had not been long there when her Aunt Adelaide came out, looking
troubled and anxious.

"Oh, Aunt Adelaide," cried the child in a hoarse whisper, catching her by
the dress, "dear Aunt Adelaide, _do_ tell me, is papa worse?"

"Yes, Elsie," she replied coldly, attempting to pass on; "he is much
worse."

The little girl burst into an agony of tears.

"You may well cry, Elsie," remarked her aunt severely, "for it is all
your fault, and if you are left an orphan, you may thank your own
perverseness and obstinacy for it."

Putting both hands over her face, with a low cry of anguish, Elsie fell
forward in a deep swoon.

Adelaide caught her ere she had quite reached the floor, and hastily
loosening her dress, looked anxiously around for help; but none was at
hand, and she dared not call aloud lest she should alarm her brother. So
laying her gently down on the carpet, she went in search of Chloe, whom
she found, as she had expected, in Elsie's room. In a few hurried words
Adelaide made her understand what had occurred, and that Elsie must be
removed without the slightest noise or disturbance.

Another moment and Chloe was at her darling's side, and raising her
gently in her strong arms, she bore her quickly to her room, and laying
her on a couch, proceeded to apply restoratives, murmuring the while,
in low, pitiful tones, "De dear, precious lamb! it mos' breaks your ole
mammy's heart to see you dis way."

It was long ere consciousness returned; so long that Adelaide, who stood
by, gazing sorrowfully at the little wan face, and reproaching herself
for her cruelty, trembled and grew pale with apprehension.

But at last, with a weary sigh, Elsie opened her eyes, and looked up,
with a sad, bewildered expression, into the dusky face bent so anxiously
over her, and then, with a feeling of intense relief, Adelaide slipped
away to her own room, leaving them alone together.

"What is it, mammy? Oh, I know! I remember! Oh, mammy, mammy! will my
dear, precious papa die?" sobbed the poor little girl, throwing her arms
around her nurse's neck.

"I hope not, darling" replied Chloe, soothingly. "Massa Horace am pretty
sick, I know; but I tinks de good Lord spare him, if we pray."

"Oh, yes, yes, mammy, let us pray for him. Let us both pray very
earnestly, and I am sure God will spare him, because he has _promised_
to grant whatever two shall agree to ask."

They knelt down, and Chloe prayed in her broken way; and when she had
finished, Elsie poured out such a prayer as comes only from a heart ready
to break with its load of sorrow and care.

None but he who has tried it can tell what a blessed relief comes to
those who thus "cast their care on Jesus." Elsie's burden was not less,
but she no longer bore it alone; she had rolled it upon the Lord and he
sustained her. She shed a few quiet tears after she had laid her head
upon her pillow, but soon forgot all her sorrows in a deep, sweet sleep,
that lasted until morning.

It was still early when she awoke and sprang up, with the intention of
hastening, as usual, to her father's side; but alas! in another moment
memory had recalled all the distressing events of the previous day, and,
sinking back upon her pillow, she wept long and bitterly.

But at length she dried her tears, and, kneeling at the bedside, poured
out her sorrows and supplications into the ear of her Saviour, and thus
again grew calm and strong to endure.

As soon as she was dressed she went to her papa's door, hoping to see
some one who could tell her how he was; but no one came, and she dared
not venture in, and her intense anxiety had yet found no relief when the
bell summoned the family to breakfast.

The same cold looks awaited her there as on the night before, and the
poor child could scarcely eat, and was glad when the comfortless meal was
over.

She followed Adelaide to Mr. Dinsmore's door, and begged her with tears
and sobs to ask her papa to allow her to come to him, if it was only for
one moment, just to look at him, and then go away again.

Adelaide was touched by her evident anxiety and distress, and said,
almost kindly, as she laid her hand on the handle of the door, "Well,
Elsie, I will ask him; but I have no idea that it will be of any use,
unless you will give up your foolish obstinacy."

Elsie stood outside waiting with a beating heart, and though her aunt was
really gone but a moment, it seemed a long time to her ere the door again
opened.

She looked up eagerly, and read the answer in Adelaide's face, ere she
heard the coldly spoken, stern message--

"Your papa says you very well know the conditions on which you will be
admitted to his presence, and that they are as unalterable as the laws of
the Medes and Persians."

The tears gushed from Elsie's eyes, and she turned away with a gesture of
despair.

"Elsie," said her aunt, "let me advise you to give up at once; for I am
perfectly certain you never can conquer your father."

"Oh, Aunt Adelaide! that is not what I want," murmured the child, in low,
broken accents.

But Adelaide went on without noticing the interruption--

"He is worse, and growing worse all the time, Elsie; his fever has been
very high ever since yesterday afternoon--and we all know that it is
nothing but your misconduct that has caused this relapse."

Elsie could bear no more, but rushing away to her own room, and locking
herself in, she gave way without restraint to her feelings of distress
and anguish.

Knowing that she was not expected in the school-room--as she had paid no
attention to study since the beginning of her father's illness--she did
not leave her room again until dinner-time.

She was on her way to the dining-room, when her Aunt Adelaide, passing
her in the hall, caught hold of her, saying, "Elsie, your papa is so ill
that the doctor trembles for his life; he says he is certain that he has
something on his mind that is distressing him and causing this alarming
change, and unless it is removed he fears he will never be any better.
Elsie, _you know what that something is_."

Elsie stood as if turned to stone, while Adelaide, letting go her arm,
moved quickly away, leaving her alone, stunned, bewildered, terrified by
the suddenness of the dreadful announcement.

She could not think or reason; she could only press her hands to her
temples, in the vain endeavor to still their wild throbbing; then,
turning back to her own room again, she threw herself upon her knees,
and, resting her head against the bed, gave vent to her over-wrought
feelings in such groans of anguish as seldom come from the heart of one
so young. At first she could neither weep nor pray; but at length tears
came to her relief, and she poured out agonizing supplications "that her
dear, _dear_ papa might be spared, at least, until he had learned
to love Jesus, and was fit to go to heaven."

She felt as though her heart would break at the very thought of being
separated from him forever in this world, but even that was as nothing
compared to the more terrible fear o