A LIST OF THE ELSIE BOOKS AND OTHER POPULAR BOOKS

BY

MARTHA FINLEY


  _ELSIE DINSMORE._
    _ELSIE’S HOLIDAYS AT ROSELANDS._
      _ELSIE’S GIRLHOOD._
        _ELSIE’S WOMANHOOD._
          _ELSIE’S MOTHERHOOD._
            _ELSIE’S CHILDREN._
  _ELSIE’S WIDOWHOOD._
    _GRANDMOTHER ELSIE._
      _ELSIE’S NEW RELATIONS._
        _ELSIE AT NANTUCKET._
          _THE TWO ELSIES._
            _ELSIE’S KITH AND KIN._
  _ELSIE’S FRIENDS AT WOODBURN._
    _CHRISTMAS WITH GRANDMA ELSIE._
      _ELSIE AND THE RAYMONDS._
        _ELSIE YACHTING WITH THE RAYMONDS._
          _ELSIE’S VACATION._
            _ELSIE AT VIAMEDE._
  _ELSIE AT ION._
    _ELSIE AT THE WORLD’S FAIR._
      _ELSIE’S JOURNEY ON INLAND WATERS._
        _ELSIE AT HOME._
          _ELSIE ON THE HUDSON._
            _ELSIE IN THE SOUTH._
              _ELSIE’S YOUNG FOLKS._


  _MILDRED KEITH._
    _MILDRED AT ROSELANDS._
      _MILDRED’S MARRIED LIFE._
        _MILDRED AND ELSIE._
          _MILDRED AT HOME._
            _MILDRED’S BOYS AND GIRLS._
              _MILDRED’S NEW DAUGHTER._


  _CASELLA._
    _SIGNING THE CONTRACT AND WHAT IT COST._
      _THE TRAGEDY OF WILD RIVER VALLEY._
        _OUR FRED._
          _AN OLD-FASHIONED BOY._
            _WANTED, A PEDIGREE._
              _THE THORN IN THE NEST._




[Illustration: Frontispiece]




MILDRED’S MARRIED LIFE

AND

A WINTER WITH ELSIE DINSMORE.

A Sequel to

MILDRED AND ELSIE.

BY

MARTHA FINLEY

(MARTHA FARQUHARSON),

AUTHOR OF THE “ELSIE BOOKS,” “MILDRED KEITH,” “MILDRED AT ROSELANDS,”
“MILDRED AND ELSIE,” “SIGNING THE CONTRACT,” ETC., ETC.

   “Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
    Of paradise that has survived the fall!”
                                         COWPER.


NEW YORK:

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY,

PUBLISHERS.




COPYRIGHT, 1882,

BY

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY




MILDRED’S MARRIED LIFE.




CHAPTER I.

  “O married love! each heart shall own,
     Where two congenial souls unite,
   Thy golden chains inlaid with down,
     Thy lamp with heaven’s own splendor bright.”
                                        ――LANGHORNE.


What a happy winter that was!――the first of Mildred’s married life.
Her cup of bliss seemed full to overflowing. She was very proud of her
husband, and not without reason, for his was a noble character; he was
a man of sterling worth, lofty aims, cultivated mind, and polished
address.

They were a pair of lovers who grew more and more enamored of each
other day by day as the weeks and months rolled on.

And while the new love flooded Mildred’s pathway with light, the old
loves, so dear, so long tried and true, had not to be given up: she
was still a member of the home circle, a sharer in all its interests
and pleasures, its cares and its joys.

There was no interruption of the mutual sympathy and helpfulness of
mother and daughter, brothers and sisters, nor was the father deprived
of the prized society of his firstborn in the family gatherings about
the table or in the cosy sitting-room or parlor when evening brought
rest from the toils and cares of the day; she was there, as of old,
ready to cheer and entertain him with music or sprightly conversation:
brighter too, and more full of a sweet and gentle gayety than of yore.

These things formed no mean or slight element in Mildred’s happiness;
yet there were times when it was bliss to be alone with her
lover-husband in the privacy of their own apartments――the room that
had always been hers and a communicating one――both of good size,
pleasant and cheery, and made doubly attractive by perfect neatness
and various tasteful little feminine devices in which Mrs. Keith and
her daughters were thought to excel.

Mildred soon discovered that her husband was far from neat and orderly
in his habits; but accepting the fact as the one inevitable yet small
thorn joined to her otherwise delicious rose, she bore the trial with
exemplary patience, indulging in never a reproachful word or even look
as she quietly picked up and put in place the books, papers, and
garments which he scattered here and there with reckless indifference
to consequences to them or himself.

Mildred thought her efforts were unappreciated if not entirely
unnoticed, until one day on opening a drawer in search of some article
which he wanted in haste, he exclaimed at the neat and orderly
arrangement of its contents, adding, “Really, Milly, my dear, I must
say with Solomon, that ‘he that findeth a wife findeth a good thing.’
In my bachelor days I’d have had many a vexatious hunt for things
which now I always find in place, ready to my hand. It has been my
daily experience since I became a benedict.”

Mildred looked up in pleased surprise. “I have been half afraid my
particularity about such things was a trifle annoying to you,
Charlie,” she said in a gratified tone.

“Not at all, but my slovenliness must have been seriously so to you,”
he returned, coming to her side. “I’ll try to reform in that respect,”
he went on playfully, “and I wish that, to help me, you would impose a
fine for every time you have my coat to hang up in the wardrobe, my
boots or slippers to put away in the closet, or――”

“Oh, I should ruin you!” Mildred interrupted with a light, gleeful,
happy laugh.

“Not particularly complimentary that, to either my good intentions or
the supposed amount of my income,” he returned, bending over her to
caress her hair and cheek. “Besides it would depend largely upon the
weight of the fine. How heavy shall it be?”

“Fix it yourself, since the idea is all your own.”

“One dollar each time for every article left out of place; fine to be
increased to not more than five in case no improvement is manifest
within a month. How will that do?”

“Oh,” laughed Mildred, “I shall certainly impoverish you and speedily
grow rich at your expense.”

“Come now, little lady, about how often have I transgressed against
the rules of order in the two weeks that we have shared these rooms?”

“Perhaps twenty. I have kept no account; so can only guess at it.”

“Well, really!” he sighed, in mock despair, “I could not have believed
I was quite so bad as that. But all the more need for reform; you must
insist upon the fines, Milly. I can’t let you have so much trouble for
nothing.”

“O Charlie! as if your love didn’t pay me a thousand times over!” she
exclaimed, lifting to his eyes dewy with mingled emotions――love, joy,
and gratitude.

He answered with a tender caress and a smile of ineffable affection.

“And then you have been so generous with money, too,” Mildred went on.
“Why, I never was so rich before in all my life! I’ve not spent a
fourth part of the hundred dollars I found in my purse the day after
our wedding. And mother tells me you have insisted upon paying a good
deal more for our board than she thinks it worth.”

“Ah, dearest, circumstances alter cases, and with more knowledge you
and mother may change your minds,” he replied, half absently.

Then after a moment’s silence, “This is my gift to my dear wife, and I
cannot tell her how glad I am to be able to make it. My darling, will
you accept it at your husband’s hands?”

He had laid a folded paper in her lap.

“Thank you,” she said playfully, and with a pleased smile. “I can’t
imagine what it is,” opening and glancing over it as she spoke. “Why!”
half breathlessly, as she scrutinized it with more care, then let it
fall into her lap with an astonished, half-incredulous look up into
his face, “Charlie, is it real?” she asked.

“Entirely so, dear Milly,” he answered, with a tender smile.

“You have endowed me with all your worldly goods,” she said, half in
assertion, half inquiringly.

“No, my darling, not nearly half as yet. I know you thought you were
marrying a poor man――at least comparatively so――but it was a mistake.
And oh the delight of being able to give you ease and luxury! you who
have toiled so long and faithfully for yourself and others!”

He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and with a heart too full for
speech, she laid her head upon his breast and wept for very joy and
thankfulness that such love and tender protecting care were hers.

There was space for little else in her thoughts for the moment; the
next she rejoiced keenly in the wealth that put in her power so much
that it had long been in her heart to do for others; yet rejoiced with
trembling, remembering the Master’s words, “How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of God!”

If adversity had its trials prosperity was not without its perils, and
a most earnest, though silent prayer went up that she might be kept
from trusting in uncertain riches or setting her affection on earthly
treasures.

“Tears, darling?” said her husband, softly stroking her hair. “I
thought to give you joy only.”

“They are happy tears, Charlie,” she murmured, lifting her face,
putting an arm about his neck, and gazing with loving eyes straight
into his; “and yet――oh, I am almost afraid of so much wealth!” And she
went on to tell him all that was in her heart.

“Ah,” he replied, “I do not fear for you, your very sense of the
danger will tend to your safe-keeping.”

“Yes; if it keeps me close to the Master and ever looking unto Him for
strength to resist temptation. Utter weakness in ourselves, we may yet
‘be strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might.’”

“Yes, you know Paul tells us the Lord said to him, ‘My grace is
sufficient for thee, for my strength is made perfect in weakness.’”




CHAPTER II.

  “Wealth heaped on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys;
   The dangers gather as the treasures rise.”
                                          ――DR. JOHNSON.


Dr. Landreth had an errand down-town. Mildred stood at the window
looking after him with loving, admiring eyes. He turned at the gate to
lift his hat and kiss his hand to her with a bow and smile, then sped
on his way, she watching until his manly form had disappeared in the
distance and the gathering darkness; for evening was closing in.

But even now she did not turn from the window, but still stood there,
gazing into vacancy, her thoughts full of the strange revelation and
surprising gift he had made to her within the last hour.

She would go presently to mother and sisters with the pleasant news,
but first she must have a little time alone with her best Friend, to
pour out her gratitude to Him and seek strength for the new duties and
responsibilities now laid upon her, the new dangers and temptations
likely to beset her path.

A few moments had been passed thus when her mother’s gentle rap was
heard at the door of her room. Mildred hastened to open it and to
unfold her wondrous tale, sure of entire, loving sympathy in all the
contending feelings which agitated her.

She was not disappointed; but while Mrs. Keith fully understood and
appreciated Mildred’s fear of the peculiar temptations of wealth, she
took a more hopeful view.

“Dear daughter,” she said, “trust in Him who has promised, ‘As thy
days so shall thy strength be,’ and take with joy this good gift He
has sent you. Keep close to Him and you will be safe, for ‘He giveth
more grace.’”

There was great and unqualified rejoicing among the younger members of
the family when they learned the news――“they were so glad that hard
times were over for dear Milly, who had always been so helpful and
kind to everybody;” and so thoroughly did they believe in her goodness
that they had no fear for her such as she felt for herself.

“Milly, what _are_ you going to do with so much money?” asked Annis,
hanging about her sister’s chair; “you can never spend it all.”

“Spend it!” cried Don contemptuously. “Only silly people think money
was made just to spend. Wise ones save it up for time of need.”

“The truly wise don’t hoard all they have, Don,” remarked Ada gravely.

“No; of course they must live, and they’ll pay their way honestly if
they are the right sort of folks.”

“And if they are that,” said Mildred, with a sweet, bright smile
irradiating her features, “they will feel that the money God gives
them is not wholly their own, to save and to spend.”

“Oh no, to be sure! and what a nice big tenth you’ll have to give now,
Milly,” exclaimed Annis. “I wish you’d find some work for me to do and
pay me for it, so that I’d have more money to give to missions.”

“I’ll pay you ten cents for every hour you spend at the piano in
faithful practice,” was Mildred’s answer, as she playfully drew her
little pet sister to a seat upon her knee.

“O Milly! will you really?” cried the child, clapping her hands in
delight; “but that will be twenty cents a day when I practise two
hours, and I mean to, every day but Sunday.”

“And I make Fan the same offer,” Mildred said, catching a half
wistful, half eager glance from the great gray eyes of that quiet,
demure little maiden.

The gray eyes sparkled and danced, their owner saying, “O Milly, thank
you ever so much! I’ll be sure to earn twenty or thirty cents every
day.”

“Forty or fifty cents a day for you to pay, Milly!” Annis said in some
anxiety.

“Don’t be concerned, little sister, my purse can stand even so
grievous a drain as that,” returned Mildred gayly.

“Mildred,” said Ada, sighing slightly, “I can hardly help envying you
the blessing of having so much money to do good with.”

“Perhaps your turn will come; at your age I had no more prospect of it
than you have now,” Mildred said, gently putting Annis aside and
rising to leave the room; for she heard her husband’s step in the
hall, and it was her wont to hasten to meet him with a welcoming
smile. But pausing a moment at Ada’s side, “It is a great
responsibility,” she added in an earnest undertone; “you must help me
with your prayers and sisterly warnings, to meet it aright.”

A liberal gift to each benevolent enterprise of the church to which
she belonged was the first use Mildred made of her newly acquired
wealth. Next her thoughts busied themselves with plans to increase the
comfort and happiness of her own dear ones; after that of friends and
neighbors.

There were some of these who might not be approached as objects of
charity, yet whose means were so small as to afford them little beyond
the bare necessaries of life. Meantime her husband was thinking of her
and how he might add to her comfort and pleasure.

It was now early in November, but the woods had not lost all their
autumnal beauty, and the weather was unusually mild for the time of
year. They had had many delightful walks and drives together.

Now Dr. Landreth proposed a trip to Chicago, and Mildred gave a joyful
assent. There would be ten miles of staging, then three or four hours
of railway travel, making a journey just long enough for a pleasure
trip, they thought; and a short sojourn in the city would be an
agreeable variety to Mildred at least, she having been scarcely
outside of Pleasant Plains for the last six or eight years.

With a heart full of quiet happiness and overflowing with gratitude to
the Giver of all good, she set about the needful preparation. No great
amount of it was needed, as they were only going sightseeing and
shopping; it could all be done in one day, and they would start early
the next morning.

Alone in her own room, packing her trunk, her thoughts reverted to a
friend, a most estimable widow lady, a member of the same church with
herself, who was enduring a great fight with adversity, having an aged
mother and several small children to support.

“They must be in need,” Mildred said half aloud to herself, pausing in
her work. “How nice it would be to give them a little help without
their knowing whence it came! Yes, I shall do it.”

She rose from her kneeling posture beside her trunk, went to her
writing-desk, enclosed a ten-dollar bill in a blank sheet of paper,
and that in an envelope which she sealed and directed to Mrs. Mary
Selby, the lady in question.

She wrote the address in a disguised hand, and following Rupert to the
outer door that evening as he was starting down-town after tea, asked
him to drop that note into the post-office for her as he passed.

He readily complied, and her secret was between the Master and
herself, as she desired it to be.

The little jaunt was an entire success, and the happy bride and groom
returned from it loaded with presents for the dear ones at home. There
was an easy-chair for father, a handsome set of furs for mother,
napery for Zillah, a silk dress for Ada, a fine soft merino for each
of the younger girls; beside books and a variety of smaller gifts for
all, even Celestia Ann having been kindly and generously remembered.

It was a glad home-coming, a merry, happy time to all the family. And
Mildred was younger, prettier, gayer in appearance and manner than
they had seen her for years.




CHAPTER III.

                          “For true charity,
  Though ne’er so secret, finds a just reward.”
                                             ――MAY.


A part of the winter’s amusement at Mr. Keith’s was the making of
plans for a house to be built the next summer for Dr. and Mrs.
Landreth. The doctor had bought an acre of ground adjoining Mildred’s
lot, and intended putting on it a large, handsome residence with every
modern convenience that was attainable in that region of country.

As soon as the frost was out of the ground the work of cellar-digging
and laying the foundation was begun. At that time the doctor hoped the
house might be ready for occupancy the next fall; but as the weeks and
months glided by that hope grew fainter under the dilatory conduct of
workmen and those who supplied material, until the most he allowed
himself to anticipate was that the walls would be up and the roof on,
so that work upon the inside might be carried forward during the
winter.

The delay was somewhat trying to both himself and Mildred, for they
had a strong desire to be in a home of their own, though it was a very
pleasant life they led in that of her parents.

Mildred kept up her church work; her Sunday-school teaching,
attendance upon the weekly prayer-meetings, the sewing society, etc.,
and also her visits to the sick and the poor.

And now she had the happiness of being able to provide these last with
medical attendance gratis, her husband joining her, heart and soul, in
her kindly ministrations.

The two were entirely congenial, and their love deepened and
strengthened with every day they lived together.

One bright April day the doctor invited his wife to take a drive with
him a few miles into the country, on the farther side of the river,
whither he was going to see a patient.

He always liked to have her company on such expeditions, when good
roads and fine weather made the drive a pleasure; and she never let
anything but sickness hinder her from going. She never wearied of his
society or grudged the sacrifice of her own plans and purposes to add
to his comfort or pleasure.

The intended call had been made, and they turned their faces homeward.
The sun was still some two or three hours high, the air pure and
bracing; not too cool for those who were well wrapped up; the delicate
yellow green of the newly-opened buds was on the forest trees, while
at their feet the blue violet, the purple anemone, and other lovely
wildwood flowers peeped up here and there among the blades of newly
springing grass, or showed their pretty heads half hidden by the
carpet of last year’s fallen leaves lying brown and dry upon the
ground.

The doctor several times stopped his horse and alighted to gather a
handful of the delicate blossoms for Mildred.

She thanked him with appreciative words and smiles, yet half absently,
as though her thoughts were intent upon something else. “Charlie,” she
said at length, “I should like to call on Mrs. Selby. It is a little
out of our way, but I think we have time; and it is strongly impressed
upon me that, for some reason, we are needed there.”

“Very well, dearest,” he answered, stepping into the buggy again, and
taking the reins from her hands, “then we will drive there at once.
There can be no harm in doing so, whether your impression be correct
or not.”

The horse was urged into a brisk canter, there were no more pauses for
flower-gathering, and presently they drew up before the Selby
dwelling――a plain, square log-house, two rooms below and two above.

As they did so, Mrs. Selby appeared at the door, drawn thither by the
welcome sound of wheels.

“Oh, how glad I am to see you!” she exclaimed with tears in her eyes.
“I was just asking the Lord to send me help somehow, for mother is
very sick, and none of the children are old enough to go to town for a
doctor. How good He is to send me just what I need!”

“Doctor and nurse both, dear Mrs. Selby,” Mildred said, pressing her
hand in heartfelt sympathy, for they had already alighted, and the
doctor was fastening his horse preparatory to entering the house.

He found the old lady very seriously ill, but fortunately had the
needed remedies with him.

The sun was setting when he went away, leaving Mildred, reluctantly
enough, too, but there were medicines to be given at regular intervals
during the night, and she was quite resolved to assist in the nursing;
while he could not stay, other patients claiming his attention; he
left her therefore, promising to return for her at an early hour next
morning.

Mildred followed him to the door.

“My darling, I can hardly bear to go without you,” he said, taking her
hand in his and bending his head to press a parting kiss upon her
sweet lips, his eyes full of wistful tenderness. “’Tis a lonely spot,”
he added, with an uneasy glance around upon the woods that enclosed
the little clearing on every side; “no man about and not another house
within half a mile; none on this side of the river within two miles.”

“No, my dear husband,” she answered, looking up into his face with a
sweet, trustful smile, “but you leave me in safe keeping nevertheless.
‘Man is distant, but God is near.’”

“That is true,” he said; “and the path of duty is the safest; you do
seem to be needed here. So good-by for a few hours, my precious little
wife. ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee, and cause His face to shine
upon thee.’”

“And may He keep my husband also, and bring him safely back to me,”
she whispered, putting her arms about his neck, her lips to his.

She watched him till a turn of the road hid him from sight, then went
in, and with a serene, cheerful face entered upon her gentle
ministrations about the sick-bed, while Mrs. Selby was busied with her
children and household cares.

At length all these duties had been carefully attended to, doors and
window-shutters bolted and barred, the children put to bed, where they
were presently soundly sleeping.

The invalid too had fallen into a heavy slumber under the influence of
an opiate, and the two ladies sat down together for a little chat, in
the neat outer room, which served as kitchen, sitting-room, and
parlor.

The evening was chilly, but a bright wood fire burned and crackled in
the large open fireplace. They drew their chairs near to it and to
each other and conversed in low tones, for the door into the inner
apartment where the sleepers were stood open, and while they talked
their ears were intent to catch the slightest sound from the sick-bed.

“It was so kind in you to stay with me to-night, and in the doctor to
leave you,” Mrs. Selby said, with a grateful pressure of Mildred’s
hand.

“I am sure you would have done the same for me in like circumstances,”
returned Mildred, “and who that loves the Master could do otherwise,
remembering His words, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the
least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me’?”

“I am sure He sent you and the doctor here to-day in answer to
prayer,” Mrs. Selby went on, her eyes filling with grateful tears. “I
think mother would have died before morning without better help than I
could give her.”

“We will give Him all the praise,” Mildred said with emotion. “He sent
us, and I feel it very sweet to be sent on His errands.” Her eyes
shone as she spoke.

“Yes,” was the reply, “I have found it so when He has sent me, as I am
sure He sometimes has, to minister to the troubled in heart, the sick
and dying. I often feel thankful, Mrs. Landreth, that money isn’t
always the only thing we can serve Him with; because that would shut
me off almost entirely.”

“No, it is not always even the best or most acceptable,” Mildred said,
with her sweet cheery smile.

“Yet there are times when it is more welcome than almost anything
else, it being unfortunately so very necessary in this world of ours.
Ah! Mrs. Landreth, even at the risk of seeming to talk a great deal
about myself, I must tell you what happened to me last fall. I was
walking into town one cold day in November, feeling so sad at heart
thinking over our many necessities and how impossible it seemed to
supply them; mother needed flannel badly and my little boys had no
shoes. I was praying silently for help all the way and trying to stay
myself upon God and those precious verses in the sixth chapter of
Matthew about the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field, and
the sweet words, ‘Your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of
all these things.’ They did comfort me a good deal, but my faith
wasn’t strong enough to quite lift the burden off me――the need was so
very pressing and no sign of help at hand.”

“They would trust me at the stores, I knew, but to buy on credit, or
borrow money when you can see no way of paying it back, is, I think,
no better than stealing, so I couldn’t do that. Just as that thought
was in my mind I looked up and saw that I was in front of the
post-office. I hadn’t thought of going there, because I had no reason
to expect anything by mail, but I stepped in and asked if there was a
letter for me; and you can’t think how surprised I was when they
handed me one, and I tore it open and found a ten-dollar bill in it.
Nothing else, not a word of writing to say where it came from. But I
knew my heavenly Father had sent it, and I cried for very joy and
thankfulness――behind my veil――as I walked along the street.”

Mildred’s heart and eyes were full as she listened. Ah, how sweet it
was to have been made the blessed Master’s almoner to one of His dear
children! But her face was half averted lest it should betray her
secret, and Mrs. Selby’s own emotion assisted in the desired
concealment.

“I thought I should never again doubt the love and care of my heavenly
Father,” the latter went on after a moment’s pause in which Mildred’s
hand sought hers and pressed it in loving sympathy. “I went to
Chetwood & Mocker’s and bought the flannel and the shoes. (Mr.
Chetwood waited on me himself, and I felt sure he put the goods down
to me, probably at cost.) And such a rejoicing as there was when I got
home! I really believe, Mrs. Landreth, that those who have but little
of this world’s goods enjoy them all the more; and so things are more
evenly divided among us all than most people think.”

The clock struck nine, and Mildred begged Mrs. Selby to lie down and
try to sleep. “You know,” she said with an arch smile, “the doctor’s
orders were that we should take turns in watching and sleeping, so
that each should have half a night’s rest.”

“Yes; and you mean to obey, like a good little wife,” returned her
friend with playful look and tone. “But won’t you take the first turn
at sleeping?”

“No, no; I feel quite fresh, and you are looking sadly tired.”

Mrs. Selby yielded, stretched herself upon a lounge, saying, “Please
be sure to call me at twelve, or sooner if you feel like lying down,”
and fell asleep almost before Mildred had finished covering her
carefully with a heavy blanket shawl.

Mildred sat musing by the fire for a little, then seeing it was the
hour for giving the medicine, administered it――the invalid just
rousing sufficiently to take it, and falling off into a heavy sleep
again immediately――then returning to the outer room, found a book,
seated herself near the light, and began to read.

She paused presently, and sat for a moment noting the death-like quiet
that reigned within and without the dwelling, broken only by a faint
sound of breathing from the next room and the ticking of the little
wooden clock on the mantel.

But the fire needed replenishing. She attended to it with as little
noise as possible, and returned to her book.




CHAPTER IV.

  “And now in moodiness,
   Being full of supper and distempering draughts,
   Upon malicious bravery dost thou come
   To start my quiet.”
                                   ――SHAKS.: OTHELLO.


Suddenly there came a sound as of a heavy body falling or being thrown
against the outer door; then a hand fumbled at the lock, and a man’s
voice said thickly, “Open hyar and let a fellar in, can’t ye?”

Mildred started to her feet, her heart beating fast and loud, while at
the same instant Mrs. Selby, waked by the noise of the fall, raised
herself to a sitting posture and glanced round at her friend with a
look of alarm.

“Blast ye! let me in hyar,” repeated the voice, its owner accompanying
the words with an oath and another effort to turn the handle of the
door.

The two women drew nearer together.

“Who is it?” asked Mildred in a tremulous whisper.

“I don’t know; but don’t be frightened, he’s evidently too drunk to
break in on us, for the door and window shutters are stout and
strongly barred.”

For several minutes the man continued to fumble at the door, pushing
against it and muttering curses and demands for entrance, the women
standing together, clasping each other’s hands and listening with
bated breath.

Then he staggered to the window and tried that, but with no better
success.

“If ye don’t le’me in,” he growled at length, “I’ll climb the roof and
git down the chimbly.”

“Could he?” asked Mildred, taking a tighter grip of her companion’s
hand.

“A sober man could easily get on the roof from the back shed,” Mrs.
Selby answered, “but I hope he will fail. He seems very drunk for such
an exploit.”

“But can’t he reach an upstairs window from the shed roof?”

“No, there is none on that side; it’s a story and a half house and
with upstairs windows in the gable ends only. They’re without
shutters, but he can’t possibly reach them.”

“And the chimney?”

“I don’t know whether it is large enough for him to get down it or
not,” Mrs. Selby said, with an anxious glance toward it, her ear at
the same time, as well as Mildred’s, still intent upon the sounds
without, “or what will be the consequence if he should. There’s a
pretty hot fire. I hope the heat will deter him from attempting the
descent, even if he should gain the roof and the chimney-top.”

“But if he should succeed in getting down?” Mildred said with a
shudder and looking about for some weapon of defence.

“We must catch up the lamp, rush into the other room, and barricade
the door. There! he is on the shed roof! Don’t you hear?”

“Yes; let us kneel down and ask our heavenly Father to protect us.”

They did so, continuing their silent supplications for many minutes,
all the more importunately as the sounds from overhead told them that
the drunken wretch had gained the upper roof and was at the top of the
chimney.

Another moment and the rattling fall of a quantity of plaster gave
notice that he was actually attempting the descent.

They rose hastily, Mrs. Selby caught up the lamp burning on the table,
and they withdrew on tiptoe, but with great celerity, to the shelter
of the inner room.

The lamp was set down in a corner where its light would not disturb
the sleepers; then the two stood close to the door, intently listening
and looking――the fire giving them light enough to see the invader
should he succeed in forcing an entrance――and Mrs. Selby with her hand
upon the lock, ready to close the door instantly upon his appearance.

Mutterings and curses came faintly to their ears; these were followed
by half-suppressed cries and groans and another fall of plaster; but
the sounds seemed stationary; they came no nearer.

“He has stuck fast, surely!” Mrs. Selby exclaimed in an excited
whisper.

“And we can do nothing to help him!” Mildred said half breathlessly.

“No, nothing.”

Their conjecture soon grew to a certainty, as the groans and cries
continued. Gradually their fright abated; they stole softly back to
the fireside, and pitying the sufferings of the poor wretch, hastened
to open the door, throw out the burning brands and extinguish them
with water. It was all they could do for his relief.

He asked for water, and they tried to give it to him, but without
success. He sang drunken songs, muttered indistinctly, asking, they
thought, for help to get out――help they could not give; then followed
groans, cries, and ineffectual struggles to get free. These gradually
grew fainter, and at length were succeeded by a death-like silence and
stillness.

“He is dead?” Mildred said half inquiringly in an awe-struck whisper.

Mrs. Selby nodded assent, tears springing to her eyes. “I am afraid
so, though I had not thought it would come to that,” she whispered.
“Oh, how horrible it is! But I’m thankful that mother and the children
have slept through it all. We’ll not speak of it to mother if she
wakes. There, I hear her stirring, and it’s time for the medicine
again.”

“I’ll hold the light for you,” Mildred said, taking it up and
following. She could not bear to stay alone in that room at that
moment.

Excitement and horror had effectually driven away from the two ladies
all inclination to sleep, and the moments dragged by on leaden wings,
until daylight brought some small sense of relief.

As Mrs. Selby threw open the window-shutters her eyes were gladdened
by the sight of a neighbor nearing her door. She hastened to admit
him.

“Good-morning,” he said; “I’m out looking for my cow; she’s strayed
away, and I thought you might――But what’s wrong?” he broke off
abruptly, gazing at her with mingled surprise and alarm.

She pointed to the chimney and dropped, white, trembling, and
speechless, into a chair.

Mildred had closed the inner door the moment his loud, hearty tones
were heard at the other.

“What is it? house afire?” he asked. “Never mind, we’ll soon have it
out. Where’s your water-bucket?” with a hasty glance about the room.

“No, no! a man――drunk――dead――I――I think,” gasped Mrs. Selby.

“What! in the chimney? You don’t say!” And hurrying to the fireplace,
he stooped and stuck his head in. “Yes, sure enough,” he gasped,
withdrawing it with a shudder, “I see his legs dangling down. He’s
dead you think?” turning from Mrs. Selby to Mildred.

“Yes,” she said, in an awed, tremulous tone; “he groaned and cried out
so at first, but hasn’t uttered a sound for hours.”

“Horrible! horrible! You don’t know who he is?”

Mrs. Selby shook her head and relieved her feelings by a burst of
weeping.

“And you think he was drunk?”

“I’m certain of it; the tones of his voice told it.” Then calming
herself she told the whole story in a few brief sentences. “Oh, what
is to be done, Mr. Miller?” she asked in conclusion.

“I’ll go for the coroner, and we’ll have him got out and taken away
just as soon as it can be done according to law.”

“But your cow?”

“No matter about her. I’ll send my boys to look her up.”

He hurried out and away.

At the same moment the sound of wheels sent Mildred to the outer door.

Giving the reins to a plainly dressed elderly woman who sat in the
buggy with him, Dr. Landreth leaped to the ground, and in an instant
his wife was in his arms, hiding her face on his breast and sobbing
hysterically.

“What is it, my darling?” he asked; “the old lady――is she so much
worse?”

Mildred seemed unable to speak, and Mrs. Selby answered for her. “No,
doctor, I think mother is better, but――” and the story of the night’s
alarm was repeated.

“Dreadful! What a night you two must have passed!” commented Dr.
Landreth, holding his wife closer to his heart.

“Who on airth can it be?” exclaimed the woman in the buggy, who had
listened to the recital in open-mouthed astonishment, as she spoke
leaning down and forward in the effort to look in at the open door,
till she seemed in imminent danger of falling.

“I haven’t an idea,” returned Mrs. Selby. “But excuse me, won’t you
alight and come in, Mrs. Lightcap? I ought to have asked you before,
but hadn’t noticed that you were there.”

“Yes, thank ye, I’ll ’light; I want to peek up in that chimbly; and
besides I’ve come to stay all day and as much longer as you need help
or nursin’. You’ve nursed my folks and me in many a sick spell, Mrs.
Selby, and I’m glad o’ the chance to pay ye back in your own coin,”
the woman answered, jumping out and hitching the horse as she spoke.

“It’s very kind――” Mrs. Selby was beginning, but the other interrupted
her. “No, ’tain’t nothing o’ the sort! I’d a ben an ungrateful wretch
if I hadn’t a clapped on my bonnet and come, the minute the doctor
told me you was wantin’ help.”

They hurried in in the wake of Dr. Landreth and Mildred.

Stooping his tall form on the hearth, the doctor put his head into the
chimney, took a long look, then withdrawing it, said in low, moved
tones, “Yes, he is there, and life seems to be extinct; there is not
the slightest sound or movement.”

“And ye can’t so much as give a guess who he is? Just let me look,”
said Mrs. Lightcap, thrusting him aside in her eagerness.

The doctor stepped toward Mrs. Selby, and speaking in an undertone.
“Keep this from your mother if possible,” he said. “I will see the
coroner and tell him how important it is that she should not be
disturbed by noise or excitement.”

“Then we must keep it from the children,” she returned, with a half
involuntary glance at Mrs. Lightcap.

“Yes,” said the latter, “we’ll manage that. Let’s get ’em up, give ’em
their breakfast, and send ’em off somewhere’s, out o’ the way, afore
the crowner comes.”

“Can I see my patient now? I must get my wife home as soon as
possible,” the doctor said, with an anxious glance at Mildred’s pale
cheeks and heavy eyes.

“She’d ought to have a bite o’ breakfast first,” Mrs. Lightcap
remarked. “What’s in that basket in the buggy, doctor? Shall I fetch
it in?”

“Ah, I forgot!” he exclaimed. “I’ll go for it. Mother sent it, with a
message to you, Mrs. Selby, that she did so because she knew you would
be too busy to do much cooking just now.”

“Just like her――always so thoughtful and kind,” Mrs. Selby said
gratefully. “I’ll have mother ready to see you in a few moments,
doctor; but Mrs. Landreth must have a cup of tea before she takes her
ride. I’ve a fire kindled in the stove in the shed kitchen and――”

“And I’ll get the breakfast while you tend to your mother and the
children,” interrupted Mrs. Lightcap, bustling about like one
perfectly at home and in earnest to accomplish a great deal in the
shortest possible space of time.

Half an hour later Mildred was driving home by her husband’s side,
drinking in deep draughts of the fresh morning air, scented with the
breath of wildwood flowers, and rejoicing that every step was taking
her farther from the scene of last night’s horror and affright.

At the bridge they met the coroner and his jury on their way to hold
the inquest over the dead man.

“Good-morning, doctor. Good-morning, Mrs. Landreth. Do you come from
Mrs. Selby’s?” asked the coroner, pausing and lifting his hat to
Mildred.

Dr. Landreth reined in his horse to reply. “Yes, Mr. Squires, and I
hope you will manage the affair as quietly as possible, as the old
lady is quite ill, and excitement would be very injurious to her.”

“Certainly, we’ll do our best, doctor. The man will have to be got out
of the chimney, and we’ll hold the inquest near by in the woods. But
you and your wife will be wanted as witnesses.”

“Sure enough!” exclaimed Dr. Landreth. “I had not thought of that. And
really my wife ought to go home and to bed at once.” And he turned to
her with an anxious, questioning look.

“Yes, let us go back, Charlie,” she said in an undertone, though her
heart sank at the very thought. “I can stand it if I have you with
me.”

“And it may be well for me to be there in case the old lady grows
worse,” he said, turning the buggy round as he spoke. “Can you spare
me while I drive the children over to the nearest neighbor’s, Milly?”

“Oh, yes, for it will be a great relief to poor Mrs. Selby to have
them out of the way,” she answered, thinking of every one before self,
as was her wont.

Driving so rapidly as to arrive some time before the coroner and his
men, who were on foot, the doctor explained all to Mrs. Selby, taking
her aside out of hearing of the children, then quickly gathered them
into his buggy and drove off by another road before the other party
came in sight.

The men had brought ladders for climbing and implements suitable for
breaking a hole in the chimney large enough for the corpse to be drawn
through. They worked from the outside and with as little noise as
possible. Doors were kept closed, and the old lady, still under the
influence of opiates, slept quietly till all was over.

Mrs. Selby, Mrs. Lightcap, and Mildred were summoned in turn to tell
all they knew about the case.

Mrs. Lightcap did not feel at all nervous or frightened, but the other
two were much agitated and could hardly have passed through the ordeal
without the support of Dr. Landreth’s presence and sympathy.

A crowd had gathered, and some among them were able to identify the
dead man as a confirmed, worthless sot from a neighboring town, one of
the many thousand wretched victims of King Alcohol.

At last all was over, a verdict rendered in accordance with the facts,
the corpse removed, the crowd scattered, and poor, weary Mildred
carried home by her anxious husband to a mother and sisters scarcely
less solicitous on her account.




CHAPTER V.


  “A babe in the house is a wellspring of pleasure.”
                                               ――TUPPER.


Spring and summer had waxed and waned and the gorgeous October hues
were again upon tree and shrub, its soft mellow haze everywhere, on
prairie, forest, town, and river.

Annis was not ill-pleased to be sent on an errand that gave her a long
walk in the sweet, bracing morning air.

She came hurrying home in almost breathless excitement, rushed
upstairs, and in at Mildred’s half-open door.

“O Milly! what do you think? I――”

But Mildred held up a warning finger.

“Excuse me, I forgot,” and Annis’s voice sank to a whisper. “I didn’t
wake him though,” she said, stealing on tiptoe to the side of the
cradle and bending down over the tiny sleeper. “O Milly, but he is a
beauty! even prettier than Zillah’s boy. Don’t you think so?”

“Don’t ask me, and don’t tell Zillah what you think about it,”
returned Mildred with a half-amused smile. “But what did you――Ah, I
see you have a letter for me,” holding out her hand for it.

“Yes; from Cousin Horace,” Annis answered, putting it into Mildred’s
hand; “and see! I have one from Elsie. And, O Milly, they want us to
come there to spend the winter, Elsie says. Do you think――”

“Us?”

“Yes; Brother Charlie, you, and me; Fan too, if she will go; but I
’most know she won’t.”

“I doubt if you or I will either; I wouldn’t leave Charlie, he
wouldn’t leave his patients, and baby is too young, I fear, for so
long a journey.”

Annis’s countenance fell. “O Milly! and I do so want to go! You don’t
care much about it, I suppose, because you’ve been there once, but I
never have.”

“Well, dear, we’ll discuss the question when your brother comes in,”
Mildred said, her eyes upon the open letter in her hand. “Yes, this is
from Cousin Horace, and I see contains a very warm invitation from
himself, his wife, and Elsie to all four of us――Charlie, my two little
sisters, and myself.”

“Well, I’ll go away till Percy wakes,” Annis whispered, with another
admiring look at the sleeping babe, and then stole on tiptoe from the
room.

She found her mother, Ada, and Fan in the sitting-room, all three busy
with the fall sewing for the family.

Her story was told in a breath. “See mother, see! a letter from
Elsie,” holding it up, while her face glowed with animation and
delight. “And, O Fan, she wants us to go and spend the winter at the
Oaks. And Milly had one from Cousin Horace too, and――”

“One what?” interrupted Ada, smiling amusedly into the bright, eager
face.

“Letter, to be sure. O mother, do you think we can go?”

“You two, all alone? No, indeed, my child.”

“_I’ll_ not go!” exclaimed Fan with decision, “I wouldn’t leave mother
and father and home so long for anything in the world!”

“No, not alone, mother; Brother Charlie and Milly are invited. But I’m
not sure, after all, that I do want to go and leave you,” Annis
sighed, taking a stool at her mother’s feet and laying her head in her
lap.

“And what could mother do without her baby?” Mrs. Keith said,
smoothing the bright curls with softly caressing hand. “But we will
not try to decide it all in a moment, dear. I doubt if the others go;
and if they do not, of course that will settle the question for you.”

“There’s Brother Charlie now!” Annis exclaimed, lifting her head to
listen; “yes, I hear his step on the stairs. Milly will show him the
letter now, and I hope he’ll say he can go. Mildred says she wouldn’t
go without him.”

Mildred looked up with a smile as her husband entered, stepping softly
that he might not disturb the slumbers of his little son and heir.

He bent over the cradle for an instant, then drew near and sat down by
her side.

“How would you like to go South for the winter?” he asked.

“Accept the invitation to the Oaks, do you mean?”

“I had not heard of it,” he said in some surprise; “but as matters are
I think it will be the very thing to do.”

He went on to explain that business of importance called him to the
neighborhood of his old home, and was likely to keep him there for
several months. “And of course,” he concluded, “I want to take my wife
and boy with me. Will you go, love?”

“Must you go? I don’t think I could stand so long a separation,” she
said, a slight mist coming over her sight at the very thought; “but
isn’t our boy too young for such a journey?”

“No, I think not; he is a strong, healthy little fellow, and the
journey, if we start within a week, need not subject him to much
exposure or fatigue. Can you get ready in that time? I find it is
quite important for me to go.”

“Yes, I can if necessary.”

“This is Wednesday,” he said reflectively; “suppose we consider it
settled that we are to start next Tuesday morning.”

“Very well. Fan and Annis are included in the invitation from the
Oaks. Are you willing to take charge of them in addition to wife and
child?” she asked, with playful look and smile.

“Certainly,” he answered cheerily, “the more the merrier.”

The babe woke, Mildred took him up, presently gave him to his father,
and they went down-stairs to let Annis know their decision, and “talk
the matter over with mother and the rest.”

As they entered the sitting-room Annis looked up with an eager “O
Brother Charlie, will you go?” while Fan dropped her work and holding
out her arms for the babe, asked if she might not take it.

“Not just yet, Aunt Fan,” the doctor said, with a good-humored smile,
dandling the babe as he spoke, “papa must have him for a little
while.”

“Till he begins to fret or cry,” remarked Ada laughingly, “then you’ll
be very ready to resign him to the first one who offers to take him.”

“Of course, isn’t that the way fathers always do?” the doctor
answered, with imperturbable good nature. “Yes, little sister,” to
Annis, “we are going; expect to leave here for the sunny South in the
morning stage next Tuesday. Are you going with us?”

“Going where? South, did you say?” asked a merry voice from the open
doorway.

All turned toward the speaker; it was Zillah standing there, making a
beautiful picture with her babe in her arms; a sweet, fair, chubby
little fellow, pink-cheeked, dark-eyed, older by a month or more than
Mildred’s boy.

Down went Fan’s work again, and with a bound she was at Zillah’s side,
holding out her hands to the child with a “Come to your auntie, sweet,
pretty pet!”

Zillah graciously resigned him, and accepting the chair gallantly
offered by the doctor, asked again what their talk was about.

“Suppose I read Cousin Horace’s letter aloud,” said Mildred, taking it
from her pocket.

“And Elsie’s, too,” said Annis, laying it in her sister’s lap.

Mr. Keith and Rupert coming in at that moment, followed almost
immediately by Wallace and Donald, she had the whole family for an
audience. Annis silently took possession of her father’s knee, and as
Mildred finished, with her arm about his neck whispered in his ear a
coaxing entreaty to be allowed to accept Elsie’s invitation.

“Wait a little, pet, till I hear what Brother Charlie has to say. But
how are father and mother to do without you for so long a time?” he
said, holding her close, with repeated caresses.

“Maybe you’ll enjoy me all the more when I come back,” was the arch
rejoinder.

“Ah, child! as if you were not already the very light of our eyes! But
there, we must stop talking and hear what the doctor is saying.”

The matter was under discussion for some time. Fan remained steadfast
to her resolution to stay at home, Annis urgent to be permitted to go.
Before night she had won the consent of both parents, letters of
acceptance had been despatched to the Dinsmores, and active
preparations for the journey set on foot.

The child’s heart misgave her now and then at thought of the long
separation from home, parents, and so many of her dear ones; but the
time was so short for all that had to be done to put her wardrobe in
such order as mother and sisters deemed desirable, that she was kept
in a whirl of excitement that up to the last hour left her little
leisure for dwelling upon anything but the business in hand, and the
pleasure in store for her at the journey’s end.

The parting was a hard one when it came; she went away drowned in
tears and sobbing pitifully, but presently forgot her grief in the
interest of new scenes and soothed by the kindly ministrations of her
brother and sister.




CHAPTER VI.

  “Slow pass our days in childhood――
   Every day seems like a century.”
                                 ――BRYANT.


At the Oaks Elsie waited for Annis’s answer to her letter with an
eager impatience which she found it difficult to restrain. Her papa
was closely questioned in regard to the exact length of time it must
necessarily take for the one missive to travel to Indiana and the
other to wend its way to the Oaks; then she counted the days, settled
upon the earliest possible as the one on which to expect it, and from
that on watched the mails, and was sorely disappointed each time one
arrived without bringing what she so greatly desired; for the letters
from Pleasant Plains were delayed, as will occasionally happen.

On the third morning, when her father, glancing over the letters he
had just taken from the mail-bag, remarked, “None yet from Mildred,”
“O dear!” she sighed, “won’t you write again to-day, papa? Don’t you
think our letters must have been lost on the way?”

“We will wait a little longer, daughter,” he said, with a sympathizing
look and smile. “Letters will travel slowly sometimes. You must try to
be patient, and perhaps this afternoon’s mail will bring the news we
are so desirous for.”

“I wish you would let me write to Annis again this morning, papa,
instead of learning lessons,” she pleaded.

“No, my child; I wish you to attend to your studies as usual,” he
replied with gentle decision.

She said no more, for she was never allowed to question his decisions
or to urge the request he had once denied.

At the regular hour she repaired to her pretty boudoir, took out her
books, and set to work at her tasks; but not with her usual spirit and
energy. Her thoughts kept wandering to Annis and Mildred, and she
found herself repeating words and sentences without in the least
taking in their meaning.

She delighted in most of her studies, but Latin, which she had begun
only of late, she thoroughly detested. Still her father required her
to study it, and she was too docile and obedient to think of refusing;
which indeed would have been quite useless, as he was one who would be
obeyed.

But having spent a half hour or more over the morning’s allotted
portion, and finding she knew no more about it now than on opening the
book, she grew discouraged and sought him in his private room, where
he was busy at his writing-desk.

“Well, daughter?” he said inquiringly as he perceived her standing,
book in hand, close at his side.

“O papa, this is such a dreadfully long, hard lesson! I can’t learn
it!”

“Can’t! ah, that’s a lazy word!” he said pleasantly, laying down his
pen to put his hand caressingly on her drooping head. “Surely my brave
little girl is not going to allow herself to be conquered by
difficulties!”

“Papa, you don’t know how difficult it is for a little child like me,”
she sighed. “Why must I learn Latin?”

“Because your father bids you,” he answered in a grave, slightly
reproving tone. “Is not that a sufficient reason for a good, obedient
child?”

“Yes, sir, but――”

“Well?”

“I was just going to say the lazy word again, papa,” she said,
furtively brushing away a tear.

He pushed back his chair and drew her to his knee. “What is wrong with
you to-day?” he asked, smoothing the hair back from her temples with
gentle, caressing hand.

“I don’t know, papa; it seems as if I can’t study somehow.”

“Do you know your other lessons?”

“Yes, sir; I learned them yesterday.”

“Go and get your books, and I will hear them now and here.”

She obeyed, and recited almost perfectly.

He gave the deserved meed of praise, then taking up the Latin grammar,
“This lesson must be learned,” he said, “but I shall not require that
to-day. I am in an indulgent mood,” he went on with a fond, fatherly
smile, “and you shall have a holiday. Your mamma and I are going to
drive into the city, and will take you along, if you wish to go.”

“O papa, how nice!” she cried, clapping her hands. Then throwing her
arms round his neck to hug and kiss him, “How good in you! Thank you
ever so much. I shall try hard to learn that lesson to-morrow.”

“And will succeed, I haven’t a doubt,” he said, returning her
caresses. “Now run away to Aunt Chloe, and tell her I want you
handsomely dressed――in the dark blue velvet suit――and at once, for the
carriage will be at the door directly.”

“Yes, sir!” And away she flew, her face sparkling with delight.

“Why, darlin’, you looks mighty pleased,” remarked Aunt Chloe, as the
little girl appeared before her fairly dancing in the exuberance of
her joy.

“Oh yes, mammy, so I am, for I’m going to drive to the city with papa
and mamma instead of sitting here studying that hard lesson. And you
must please make all the haste you can to dress me in my blue velvet
suit.”

“Massa say so? Den dat I will, darlin’, hab you ready fo’ Miss Rose
gits her bonnet on.”

Always ready to exert herself for the pleasure of her idolized
nursling, Aunt Chloe had laid aside her knitting and taken the dress
from the wardrobe before her sentence was fairly concluded.

Her dexterous fingers made quick work with the little girl’s toilet.
“Ki, chile! but you is lubly and sweet as de rose!” was her delighted
exclamation as she took a careful survey of her completed work.

“O mammy, you mustn’t flatter me!” laughed Elsie, dancing from the
room. “Good-by till I come back.”

Hastening to the grand entrance hall of the mansion, she found the
carriage at the door; but her papa and mamma had not yet made their
appearance. Her baby brother was there, however, crowing in his
nurse’s arms.

“Oh, you pretty darling, come to sister!” cried the little girl,
holding out her arms to receive him.

But her father’s step and voice sounded in her rear. “No, no, Elsie!
he is quite too heavy for you to hold; especially with his out-door
garments on.”

“Why, papa, you never said so before,” she returned in a disappointed
tone, looking up entreatingly into his face as he drew near, “though
you’ve often seen me holding him.”

“But he is growing heavier every day, daughter, and for your own sake
I must forbid you to carry him. You may have him on your lap
occasionally for a little while at a time, when you are seated; but
never hold him when standing.”

Elsie sighed, then brightening, “I was ready in season, papa,” she
said.

“Yes, dearest, and I am altogether satisfied with your appearance.”

“As you well may be, my dear,” added Rose gayly, joining them at that
moment.

Mr. Dinsmore handed her into the carriage, then Elsie, followed them
himself, and taking the babe from his “mammy,” bade her get in also.

“I shall hold Master Horace for a while,” he said, “but if he begins
to fret or cry shall hand him over to you.”

The day was a glorious one in late October; the carriage was roomy,
softly cushioned, and easy rolling; Dick was a skilful driver; the
roads were in fine condition, and the little party were in high health
and spirits. Elsie quite forgot her disappointment of the morning and
was full of innocent mirth and gladness.

Arrived in the city they spent some hours in shopping, visiting in
turn dry-goods, jewelry, book, and toy stores, and Elsie became the
delighted possessor of several new books, and a lovely doll to add to
her already large family; all gifts from the fond, indulgent father,
who seemed ready to give her everything that money could buy for which
she showed the slightest desire.

Nor was he less indulgent to his wife; but fortunately neither wife
nor daughter was disposed to tax his generosity to any great extent.

They drove to the post-office last, and to Elsie’s great delight found
there a letter addressed to her papa from Mrs. Landreth, enclosing a
few lines from Annis to herself, both accepting the invitation to the
Oaks and mentioning the day set for the beginning of their journey.
Mildred also told what route they would take and about how soon they
expected to reach their destination if all went well by the way.

“These letters have been delayed,” Mr. Dinsmore said, when he had read
his aloud to Rose and Elsie, “and if our friends are not detained we
should have them with us day after to-morrow.”

“Oh, oh, how nice!” cried Elsie. “Papa, must I say lessons the first
day they’re with us?”

“There will not be another holiday for you until that troublesome
Latin lesson has been properly disposed of,” he answered gravely.

“If it isn’t ready for you to-morrow, papa, it sha’n’t be for want of
trying,” Elsie said resolutely, though it cost an effort to refrain
from again complaining that it was too long and hard for her to
master.

But she felt rewarded by the affectionate, approving smile her father
bestowed upon her. And she said to herself, “What a very naughty,
ungrateful girl I should be not to try my very best when papa has been
so good and kind to me to-day! Yes, and is every day. I don’t believe
any other little girl ever had such a dear good father.”

And with the thought she lifted her face to his with such a sweet,
loving look, as she sat opposite him in the carriage, that he could
not refrain from taking her in his arms and bestowing upon her another
and another tender caress.

Rose watched them with a beaming countenance. It was a perpetual feast
to her to behold their mutual affection.

As they drew near home they were overtaken by a gentleman on
horseback. Mr. Dinsmore saluted him with great cordiality.

“Ah, Travilla, how are you to-day? All well at Ion?”

“Quite well, thank you, Dinsmore,” returned the cavalier, lifting his
hat with a low bow first to Mrs. Dinsmore and then to Elsie. “Just
from the city?”

“Yes; and glad we are reaching home in time to receive your call.”

“Thank you. I was so fortunate as to meet with entire success in the
business you entrusted to me, Dinsmore; of which fact I think we shall
presently have ocular demonstration.”

“And in that case there will be other demonstrations,” responded Mr.
Dinsmore, looking at his little girl with an odd sort of smile.

“I dare say,” Mr. Travilla said, smiling admiringly on her also.

They had turned in at the great gates and now swept rapidly and
smoothly along the broad gravelled drive that, winding about through
the well-kept grounds, finally brought them to the principal entrance
to the mansion.

The carriage stopped, the door was thrown open by a servant who stood
there in waiting. Mr. Dinsmore sprang out and assisted his wife to
alight, then Elsie.

As the little girl’s foot touched the ground she caught sight of a
beautiful little phaeton, to which were harnessed a pair of Shetland
ponies, very pretty and exactly alike.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “we must have company! I wonder who it is with
such a lovely turnout!”

“No, Miss Elsie, dar ain’t no comp’ny in de house,” put in the
servant, her papa’s man John; “and I kin’ o’ reckon dat grand turnout
b’longs hyah. Ain’t dat so, Massa Horace? Yah, yah!”

Elsie gave her father an eager, inquiring, half-incredulous look.

“Yes, daughter, it is yours,” he said, smiling fondly upon her.

“O papa! how good you are to me,” she cried, glad, grateful tears
shining in her eyes. “Is it really my very own? and may I get in and
take a drive?”

“Yes,” he said, leading her to the phaeton and handing her in, then
seating himself by her side, and taking the reins, which John put into
his hand.

“The phaeton is just large enough for two,” he remarked, “and the
ponies, though small, are quite strong enough to draw us both. You
shall have the reins in your own hands presently, and I will give you
a lesson in driving, though you already have a pretty correct idea of
it.”

“Why yes, papa, you know you have let me drive a little several times.
And these pretty ponies are so small I think I can easily manage them.
Will you let me drive by myself sometimes?”

“You would prefer my room to my company, eh?” he remarked laughingly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, papa!” she cried, blushing vividly.

“I intend to let you drive about the grounds with Annis, or some other
friend, when you have become familiar with your new steeds,” he
answered, bending down to touch his lips to the glowing cheek, “and I
hope, my darling, you will find great enjoyment in so doing.”

A few weeks previous to this Elsie had seen and admired a similar
though less handsome equipage, and though she did not ask for such an
one for herself, her ever-indulgent father had at once determined in
his own mind that she should have it.

He wanted it to be a pleasant surprise, so said not a word to her
about it, but talked the matter over with Rose and his friend, Mr.
Travilla. The latter undertook to make the purchase for him, and had
managed the business to the entire satisfaction of all concerned.

“Papa, you are just _too_ good to me!” Elsie exclaimed.

“Am I?” he asked, putting the reins into her hands. “Now let me see
how well you can drive?”

She succeeded very nicely in guiding and controlling her small steeds;
so well indeed that her father said she might try it alone in a day or
two.

They made the circuit of the grounds, then drew up in fine style
before the veranda, where Rose and Mr. Travilla sat watching them.

“Well and bravely done, my little friend!” exclaimed the latter,
springing down the steps to hand her from the phaeton, as John took
the reins, she resigning them a trifle reluctantly.

“Oh, it’s so nice!” she cried. “Please, papa, mayn’t I drive round
once more?”

“No, daughter, this is enough for to-day. Let Mr. Travilla lift you
out. You must remember you have already had a long drive, beside the
fatigue of shopping.”

Mr. Dinsmore spoke kindly but with decision, and the little girl
submitted without so much as a pout or frown. A moment or two spent in
petting and caressing the new ponies, her father and Mr. Travilla
looking on and listening with pleasure and amusement, and she ran
gayly into the house, eager to show her friend the books and toys just
brought from the city.

He was a frequent visitor at the Oaks, made much of Elsie, and always
showed as keen an interest in her childish pleasures as Mr. Dinsmore
himself.

“Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Travilla?” Elsie asked, exhibiting the doll.

“That she is. She will be your favorite child, I presume.”

“No, sir; she will be valued very highly as papa’s gift, but she can
never be so dear as Rose.”

“Rose? which is she?”

“My very largest dollie, the first that papa ever gave me. She’s been
with me through so many happy times, and sad times, that I love her
better than I can ever love another.”

“Ah!” he said with sudden gravity, for her words carried him back to a
time that had been very sad indeed to her and all who loved her.

“Mr. Travilla, may I name this one Violet, for your mother?” she
asked.

“Certainly, my dear; my mother will feel complimented no doubt,” he
said with a twinkle of fun in his eye. “You must have quite a family,
I suppose. Would you like to show them all to me?”

“Ah yes, indeed, sir! if you care to see them. There are more than a
dozen, big and little, altogether.”

“It is about time you were having your hat and coat taken off,
daughter,” her father said, coming up to them at that moment.

“Yes, papa, I’m going now, and Mr. Travilla’s going with me to see my
baby-house and all my family.”

“Ah, won’t you invite me too?”

“Why, papa!” she exclaimed, “you don’t need an invitation, you have
more right in my rooms than even I have.”

“By virtue of being the grandfather of the family, I suppose,” he said
laughingly. “Well, then, I will lead the way.”

The baby-house was really very handsome, and the dolls, all tastefully
dressed, presented a pretty sight.

“I’m afraid I’m growing rather old to play with dolls,” remarked
Elsie, with gravity, when she had given their names and relationship,
“but I like to make pretty clothes for them, and that teaches me to
cut and fit and sew. And when I’m reading here by myself I like to
have Rose on my lap; she seems like a live thing and company for me.”

“You find that pleasanter than studying Latin?” her father said in a
playful tone, laying a hand lightly on her head and bending down to
look fondly into the sweet child face.

“Papa, I do mean to have that lesson perfect to-morrow,” she said in a
half whisper, her eyes cast down and her cheek flushing.




CHAPTER VII.

  “Oh, enviable, early days!”
                            ――BURNS.


Mr. Travilla left the Oaks directly after tea. Mrs. Dinsmore went to
the nursery, and Elsie and her papa were the only remaining occupants
of the parlor. He was pacing to and fro in meditative mood, she seated
by the centre-table, turning over her new books.

Presently pushing them aside, “Papa,” she asked, “shall I get my Latin
grammar and learn that lesson now?”

“No; you are tired and will find it easier in the morning. Besides I
want you now. Come here,” he said, taking possession of an easy-chair
beside the bright wood fire that crackled on the hearth.

She obeyed with joyous alacrity.

“You are pleased with the phaeton and ponies?” he said inquiringly, as
he drew her to his knee.

“Yes, indeed, papa! What does make you so very, very good to me?”

“Love,” he answered, holding her close. “My darling, there is nothing
I enjoy more than giving you pleasure and adding to your happiness.
Tell me if you have a single wish ungratified.”

“Only one that I can think of just now, papa,” she replied, looking up
at him with an arch smile, then dropping her eyes and blushing as if
more than half ashamed of the admission.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“I don’t like to tell you, papa,” she murmured, hanging her head still
lower, while the blush deepened on her cheek.

“Ah, but you have roused my curiosity, and now I insist upon knowing,”
he said, with a mixture of authority and playfulness.

His left arm encircled her waist, he put his right hand under her chin
and lifted her face so that it was fully exposed to his view.

“Now look up at me and tell me what you wish. Why should you desire to
hide a thought from the father who loves you as his own soul?”

“Only because――because I’m ashamed, papa. It’s just that I――I wish you
wouldn’t make me learn Latin.”

With the last word she turned and hid her blushing face on his breast.

He did not speak for a minute or more.

“Please don’t be vexed with me, papa,” Elsie said, with tears in her
voice.

“No, daughter,” he answered gravely, “but I see that if I would
consult my child’s best interests I must content myself to leave some
of her wishes ungratified. You are not old enough or wise enough to
choose for yourself in such matters. And I am sorry that you are not
quite willing to submit to my guidance and authority.”

“Don’t be sorry, papa! I will be good about it after this, indeed I
will!” she said, with earnest entreaty, looking up into his face with
eyes full of tears. “I’m glad I have a papa who loves me well enough
to always do what he knows is best for me, even when I am so naughty
as to――to not want to do as he says.”

Rose came in at that moment, and Mr. Dinsmore’s only answer to his
little girl was a silent caress.

She came to him the next morning, before breakfast, her face beaming
with satisfaction, her Latin grammar in her hand.

“Good-morning, papa,” she said, “I know every word of my lesson now. I
rose half an hour earlier than usual and studied hard all that time
and while mammy was dressing me and curling my hair.”

“That is like my own dear little girl,” he responded with a pleased
look and taking her on his knee to kiss and fondle her. He kept her
there while he heard the lesson.

“Very well done, indeed!” he said, when she had finished. “Now you see
what you are capable of when you resolutely set your mind to your
task. Your phaeton is at the door; would you like to take a drive
about the grounds before breakfast?”

“Yes, indeed, dear papa! I shall enjoy it ever so much now that that
hard, disagreeable lesson is out of the way.”

“We shall have a full half hour for it,” he remarked, consulting his
watch. “Run to Aunt Chloe and have yourself well wrapped up; for the
air is keen and frosty.”

He did not need to bid twice, nor did she keep him waiting, but was at
his side again in hood and cloak by the time he had donned his
overcoat and gloves.

He rode with her, but let her do all the driving. He brought her back
in good time for breakfast, and she came to the table gay as a lark,
eyes shining, and a lovely color in her cheeks.

“O mamma,” she said, “we have had such a nice drive in the new
phaeton――papa and I――and he says I may drive Annis about the grounds
when――”

“If Annis is willing to trust herself to your driving,” put in her
father laughingly.

Elsie’s countenance fell slightly. “I hope she will be; the ponies
seem very gentle and tractable,” she went on. “You know you said so
yourself, papa.”

“Yes; I don’t think there will be any danger, or I should be very sure
not to risk my child in the venture,” he returned, smiling with
fatherly affection into the fair young face.

“No doubt about that,” said Rose. “But, Elsie, are Annis and your papa
to be the only persons to enjoy the privilege of driving out with you
in the new phaeton?”

“O mamma, would you be willing to try it?” Elsie asked with eager
delight. “I’ll drive you out to-day when my lessons are done, if papa
gives permission and you will go. May I, papa?”

“You may do anything your mamma wishes you to do.”

“Unless,” said Rose, “I should unwittingly ask her to do something her
father has forbidden.”

“Oh, of course! that might happen. In any conflict of authority
undoubtedly mine must stand against all other, since even you have
promised to submit to it, lady mine,” Mr. Dinsmore returned in jesting
tone, and with a fond, lover-like look into the sweet face of his
wife.

Elsie glanced wonderingly from one to the other.

“Did you really, mamma?”

“Yes; didn’t you hear me?” said Rose, laughing and blushing.

“But don’t you do exactly as you please?”

“I have so far.”

“That’s because she’s wise and good enough always to please to do
right,” remarked Mr. Dinsmore.

“Oh, yes, sir!”

For the next five minutes Elsie ate in silence, apparently lost in
thought.

Her father watched her with an amused face. “Well, daughter,” he said
at length, “a penny for your thoughts.”

“I was only thinking, papa, that I hope I’ll never have to get
married,” she said, with a slight sigh.

“Of course you will never be compelled to,” he replied, with
difficulty restraining a laugh, “but what is your objection?”

“I mean if I should have to promise to obey; because I couldn’t obey
two people, if they didn’t always agree, and I shall always have to
obey you.”

“Well, my child, you need not so much as have a thought about that
question for ten years to come,” he answered with gravity. “It is a
subject a little girl like you should never think of at all.”

“Then I’ll try not to any more, papa. But, mamma, you haven’t said
whether you will drive out with me to-day or not?”

“Thank you, dear, for your kind offer,” Rose answered, “but I think I
must wait until another day, as there are some things I wish to attend
to in preparation for the coming of the cousins to-morrow.”

“Can you not allow yourself a little playtime?” her husband asked.
“Your company will not arrive until near tea-time to-morrow evening.”

“Well, perhaps. You will send the carriage to meet them, of course?”

“Yes, and ride over myself on horseback.”

“O papa, couldn’t I drive over for Annis?” asked Elsie.

“No; it would be too long a drive for you. But if you wish you may
ride with me; ride Glossy or Gyp, either one would be the better for
the exercise.”

“Thank you, dear papa; I believe I shall like that quite as well,” the
little girl responded with a very pleased look and smile; for there
was scarcely anything she enjoyed more than riding by her father’s
side.

She was quite fearless and at home on horseback, having been
accustomed to it ever since she was five years old.

Rose was very busy that day and the next in preparations for the
comfort and enjoyment of her expected guests.

Elsie took a deep interest in all that was done, and gave such
assistance as she was capable of and permitted to attempt. She was
with her mamma in the suite of rooms intended for the use of Dr. and
Mrs. Landreth, watching and helping her as she put the last finishing
touches to their adornment, placing vases of flowers on mantels,
toilet and centre tables, looping anew the rich curtains of silk and
lace, rearranging their soft folds, then stepping back to note the
effect, pushing an easy-chair a little farther to this side or that,
picking up a shred from the carpet, or wiping invisible dust from some
article of furniture.

“Your Cousin Mildred is extremely neat, Elsie, is she not?” Rose
asked, taking a final survey of the beautiful boudoir.

“I believe she is, mamma, but not more so than you are,” the little
girl answered, looking up affectionately into the slightly anxious
face of her young step-mother.

“You think she will be pleased with these rooms?”

“O mamma, how could she help it? They are just lovely! sweet with the
breath of flowers; and everything corresponds so nicely. You know papa
chose all the furniture, carpets, curtains, and ornaments; and he has
such excellent taste.”

“So you and I think, at all events,” Rose responded with a smile.

“And Cousin Mildred is lovely enough to match with everything here,”
Elsie remarked, sending a satisfied glance from side to side.

“Are you not glad she is coming to make us a good long visit, mamma?”

“Yes, dear, I am indeed, for though I have never met her, I feel quite
sure, from all your father, Mrs. Travilla, and you have told me, that
I shall love her dearly.”

“I think she will be like a sister to you, and Annis like one to me,
and that we shall have oh such a nice time while they stay!”

“Yes, I hope so; but haven’t we nice times always with each other,
your dear father, and Baby Horace?”

“Yes, yes, indeed, mamma! I often think I must be the happiest girl in
the world,” Elsie said, putting her arm about Rose’s waist and holding
up her face for a kiss.

Rose gave it with earnest affection. “Dear child,” she said, “I hope,
if the will of God be so, life may always be as bright to you as it is
now. Darling, I think even your fond father can hardly love you much
better than I do. Ah,” she added, taking out her watch, “it is time
you were getting ready for the ride with him to the dépôt.”

At that Elsie hastened from the room. As she descended the broad
staircase her father appeared at its foot, looked up smilingly at her,
and held out his arms.

With a merry, ringing laugh she sprang into them and put hers about
his neck.

“My darling!” he said, holding her close. “I was just coming for you.
I have ordered the horses and they will be at the door by the time you
can don your riding-habit.”




CHAPTER VIII.

  “Youth treads on flowers where’er he goes,
   And finds on every thorn a rose.”


“We are almost there! Time to don hats, gloves, and cloaks, and gather
together bags, boxes, and bundles,” exclaimed Dr. Landreth in his
cheery tones, reaching Annis her hat from the rack overhead as he
spoke. “Milly, my dear,” bending over her in tender solicitude, “how
is the headache now? I’m thankful I shall soon have you out of this
close, overheated atmosphere. No, don’t disturb yourself, Annis and I
will take care of the bundles. Now give me the boy.”

“Here,” beckoning to the porter as the train came to a standstill,
“carry out these packages, will you? Now, Milly and Annis, keep close
to me, but don’t be uneasy; this is the end of the road, and we have
plenty of time.”

Annis had hurried on her wrap, and now, catching up her satchel,
turned to her sister, who was fastening her cloak, with “O Milly, make
haste, and I’ll keep close behind you.”

“No, go on, child,” Mildred answered, gently pushing the little girl
on before her.

Another minute and they were assisted from the car by their Uncle
Dinsmore on one side and Cousin Horace on the other. There was Elsie
too, waiting to give a welcoming embrace to each; and beside her Mr.
Travilla, who had ridden over to meet his old friend, Charlie
Landreth, and be introduced to his wife; for the mistress of Ion had
so often sounded Mildred’s praises in her son’s ears that he was very
desirous to meet the object of her encomiums.

Tired and travel-stained as she was, Mildred did not show to the best
advantage, yet the beauty of form and feature, the intellectual and
sweet countenance, seemed to him to fully justify his mother’s
praises.

With joyous exclamations, “O Elsie, dear!” “O Annis, how glad I am
you’ve come at last!” the little girls clasped each other in a warm
embrace.

Greetings, introductions, and friendly inquiries exchanged all around,
the travellers were speedily bestowed in Mr. Horace Dinsmore’s
comfortable family carriage and driven away in the direction of the
Oaks, their luggage following in a wagon.

Elsie was lifted to her saddle by her father’s strong arms, he vaulted
to the back of his own larger steed, and the older Mr. Dinsmore and
Mr. Travilla having mounted theirs, all four started at a gallop in
pursuit of the carriage, which they presently distanced, exchanging
smiling salutations with its occupants as they passed.

Elsie rode by her father’s side, the other two gentlemen a little in
advance.

“You will go on to the Oaks with us, father? and you, Travilla?” Mr.
Horace Dinsmore said with hospitable cordiality.

“Not to-night, Horace,” the old gentleman answered, “I’ll be over
to-morrow, if nothing happens to prevent. I want a talk with Mildred,
but she’s tired to-night and ought to retire early.”

Mr. Travilla, too, declined the invitation, on the plea of an
engagement to meet a gentleman on business.

So presently, when they reached the spot where their roads parted,
Elsie and her papa were left to pursue their way alone.

“Now for a race to the Oaks, Elsie,” Mr. Dinsmore said gayly; “let us
see if we can get there in time to receive our friends on their
arrival.”

So the horses were urged till they almost flew over the ground. Elsie
had never ridden so fast before, and enjoyed it keenly.

They arrived so much in advance of the carriage that she had time to
run to her dressing-room and have her riding habit exchanged for a
white cashmere and pink ribbons, then join her papa and mamma in the
principal entrance hall as the carriage drew up before the door.

The warmest of welcomes awaited the weary travellers. “Never were
guests more welcome!” was Mr. Dinsmore’s salutation.

Rose embraced Mildred with sisterly affection, saying, “I am so very
glad you have come. I am sure we shall love each other.”

“I do not doubt it,” Mildred answered; “I was prepared to love you for
your husband’s sake, and now I see that I shall for your own.”

“And, mamma, this is Annis,” Elsie said, releasing the latter from a
vigorous hug, and drawing her toward Rose. “Annis, this is my pretty
new mamma that I told you I was going to have, when I was at your
house.”

“She _is_ pretty, and looks very kind, too,” Annis exclaimed, in a
burst of honest admiration.

“Thank you, dear,” returned Rose, in evident amusement, bestowing an
affectionate kiss upon the child.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore themselves conducted their older guests to the
apartments prepared for them, Annis and Elsie following.

“Oh, how charming!” was Mildred’s delighted exclamation when shown
into the beautiful boudoir, whence open doors gave glimpses of
dressing and bedrooms equally inviting in appearance; and she turned
with beaming countenance to her hospitable entertainers, adding, “What
a haven of rest after our long, weary journey!”

“I hope it may prove so, indeed,” Rose said, looking greatly pleased.

“We want you to make yourself perfectly at home in our house, Milly,”
added Mr. Dinsmore. “You, too, Charlie; call for anything you want; a
servant will always be ready to answer your ring. And do not feel that
you are trammelled by any of the rules of our establishment; rise in
the morning and retire at night, come and go, as you like. We will be
glad of your company when you are disposed to favor us with it, but
when you prefer the solitude of these rooms, do not hesitate to
indulge that preference,” he concluded laughingly, as he withdrew,
presently followed by his wife.

In the mean while Elsie, after allowing Annis a hasty survey of
Mildred’s apartments, had taken her into an adjoining bedroom, saying,
“Now, Annis, dear, you are to choose between this room and another
next to my sleeping-room. Mamma said so because she was not sure
whether you would care most to be near Cousin Milly or near me.”

For several minutes Annis gazed about her in silence, seemingly struck
dumb with surprise and admiration at the richness and beauty of her
surroundings.

A velvet carpet covered the floor, lace curtains draped the windows,
the bed-spread and pillow-shams were of pink silk covered with a film
of lace, chairs and couches were cushioned with satin damask, while
sweet-scented hothouse flowers and a variety of other pretty things
were scattered here and there with lavish hand.

“Oh,” she cried, at last, drawing a long breath, “what a lovely room!
fit for a queen, I am sure! Did Cousin Rose really intend it for me?”

“Yes; if you prefer it to the other, Annis. But won’t you see that
before you decide? I should so like to have you close beside me,”
Elsie said, half imploringly, putting an arm about Annis’s waist and
drawing her toward a door opposite that by which they had entered the
room.

“And I’d like it too,” Annis returned with hearty acquiescence. “And,
in fact,” she went on, “I’d rather not be where everything is so
handsome and costly; because I might spoil something.”

“That wouldn’t make any difference, ’tis easy to replace things, and
one grows tired of always seeing the same,” Elsie said. “But I think
the other room is quite as pretty in every way as that.”

She had led Annis into a back hall, and they were now descending a
flight of stairs that led to another on the ground floor; reaching
that they presently came to a door which, on opening, admitted them to
a bedroom that was, as Elsie remarked, quite equal to the one they had
just left.

“This is it, Annis,” she said. “That door yonder opens into my
sleeping-room, and you can get to Cousin Mildred from here very
quickly and easily by the way we came.”

“Oh, I’ll take this!” said Annis. “’Twill be ever so nice for us to be
close together!”

“Oh, won’t it! I’m so glad. Come and see my rooms if you’re not too
tired.” And Elsie led the way, Annis following, through bedroom,
dressing-room, and boudoir.

They were large and airy, and so luxuriously and beautifully furnished
and adorned that Annis almost thought herself in fairy-land.

She said so to her little cousin, adding, “What a happy girl you must
be! you seem to have nothing left to wish for.”

“‘A man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he
possesseth,’” Elsie murmured half aloud, half to herself; then turning
to Annis a very bright, winsome face, “You know Jesus said that when
here on earth, and though I am very happy I sometimes think I could be
just as happy in a hut with His love and my dear papa’s.”

“Yes,” assented Annis, “I wouldn’t be without father and mother for
all the money and fine things in the world. But oh, isn’t it time for
me to be getting washed and dressed?”

“Yes; I’ll have your trunk carried to your room,” Elsie said, ringing
for a servant. “And mammy will help you dress, if you wish. Oh, here
she is!” as the old nurse appeared before them. “Mammy, this is Cousin
Annis Keith. You remember her, don’t you?”

“Yes, ’deed I do, darlin’,” she returned; “I’se glad to see you at de
Oaks, Miss Annis, and hopes you and my chile hab best ob good times
togedder,” she added, dropping a courtesy to the young guest.

“Thank you, Aunt Chloe,” Annis said, shaking hands with her.

“Yes, Mammy, we’re going to be close together,” said Elsie. “So please
have Annis’s trunk brought immediately to that room,” indicating with
a motion of her hand the adjoining apartment, for they were now in her
own sleeping-room.

“Bress yo’ heart, honey. I’ll see ’bout dat ’dreckly,” and Aunt Chloe
hurried away in search of the luggage and a man servant to carry it
in.

“Is Cousin Horace near you at night?” asked Annis.

“Yes, indeed!” Elsie replied, with joyous look and tone; “that door
beside my bed leads into the room where he and mamma sleep; their bed
is very near it too, and papa always sets the door wide open before he
gets into bed, so that if I want him in the night I have only to call
out ‘papa,’ and he is beside me in an instant. Oh, it’s so nice,
Annis! I feel so glad and safe with my dear earthly father so close to
me, and our heavenly Father always with us, taking care of us all. You
know the Bible says, ‘Behold he that keepeth Israel shall neither
slumber nor sleep.’ Aren’t they sweet words?”

Mr. Dinsmore sat alone in the library reading by the light of the
astral lamp on the centre-table. A door on the farther side of the
room opened softly, a little white-robed figure lingered for a moment
on the threshold, then with noiseless steps stole swiftly to the back
of his chair, two round white arms crept about his neck, a soft cheek
was laid against his, and a low sweet voice murmured in his ear, “My
papa! my own, own dear papa!”

The book was hastily closed and thrust aside, he turned half round in
his chair, caught the little graceful figure and drew it to his knee
to caress and fondle it with many an endearing word.

“Where is Annis?” he asked at length.

“Taking a bath while Mammy unpacks her trunk. Then Mammy will brush
her hair for her and help her dress.”

“Ah! I hope she will find herself quite refreshed and with a good
appetite for her supper. Are you not fatigued after your long ride?”

“A little, papa.”

“Then sit here and rest for the present; and you and Annis would do
well to retire early to your beds to-night. I should advise her to
defer even an introduction to the dolls and their house until
to-morrow.”

“I can hardly help wishing to-morrow was here,” exclaimed the little
girl. “I’m in such a hurry to show her Gyp and Glossy and the two new
ponies and the phaeton.”

“And ever so many other things? Well, my child, go to bed early, and
to-morrow will soon be here. I shall give you a holiday for the rest
of the week, that you and Annis may get your fill of play and find
lessons enjoyable by next Monday.”

“Oh, how nice, papa!” she cried, giving him a hug.

“But I thought you were fond of lessons,” he said, pinching her cheek
and smiling fondly down into the bright little face.

“Yes, papa, so I am usually; but I like a holiday now and then. And
may I drive Annis out in the phaeton every day?”

“You may, when there is nothing to prevent; two or three times a day
if you wish. But you will want to ride sometimes. The Shetlands can be
used in the saddle, and I think will be the best for Annis to learn
on; if, as I suspect, she has never ridden.”

“And you will teach her, papa? No one could do it better.”

“If she wishes. But Dr. Landreth and Mr. Travilla are quite as
capable; and she may prefer to learn of them.”

“I don’t believe she will. I’m sure I’d much rather have you than
anybody else.”

At that he only smiled and stroked her hair.




CHAPTER IX.

  “A sweet, heart-lifting cheerfulness,
   Like spring-time of the year,
   Seemed ever on her steps to wait.”
                                 ――MRS. HALE.


“Will I do, Elsie?” asked Annis.

“Yes, indeed! What a pretty dress; it is so soft and fine and just
matches your blue eyes.”

“Dat’s so, chile, sho’ nuff,” said Aunt Chloe, smoothing down the
folds of the pretty cashmere, “an’ de ribbons de same. Now, missy,
I’se done, an’ dars de suppah bell.”

Annis thought again it was like being in fairyland, as Elsie, putting
an arm about her waist, drew her on through several spacious,
richly-furnished, softly-lighted rooms to one more brilliantly
illuminated, where a table was spread with the choicest china and
silverware, and all the delicacies of the season.

Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were already there, and as the little girls came
in at one door, Dr. and Mrs. Landreth entered by another.

Mildred had exchanged her travelling suit for a becoming evening
dress, and seemed to have put off with it much of the weary look she
had worn on her arrival.

The doctor, too, was greatly improved in appearance by a change of
linen and riddance of the dust of travel.

When all had been seated, the blessing asked, and the meal fairly
begun, Annis, smiling across the table at her sister, asked, “What
have you done with Percy?”

“Found a nurse for him and left him in her care fast asleep,” replied
Mildred. Then turning to her Cousin Horace, “Good help is still scarce
with us,” she remarked; “a competent child’s nurse not to be had; but
with so many sisters at home, all esteeming it a privilege to assist
in the care of the baby, I scarcely felt the need of one there.”

“You must have one here though,” he answered with gay good humor, “for
we are not going to let you shut yourself up at home to such cares and
labors while there is so much enjoyment to be had in riding, driving,
and visiting among this hospitable and cultivated people.”

“I agree with you entirely in that, Dinsmore,” chimed in the doctor.
“I brought her here to recruit and enjoy herself as much as possible.”

“Indeed!” Mildred said, with an arch look and smile, “I understood it
was because you couldn’t do without me and your boy.”

“For both reasons, my dear; and so loath am I to be parted from you
that I shall find very little pleasure in visiting old friends, and
old familiar haunts, unless I can take my wife along.”

“I hope you gentlemen will allow us some quiet home pleasures also for
a variety,” remarked Rose. “I have been planning the enjoyment of some
interesting books and many a chat with Cousin Mildred.”

“Discussing the affairs of the nation?” asked Mr. Dinsmore, with a
twinkle of fun in his eye.

“Perhaps they may be the theme occasionally,” she answered demurely,
“when we have exhausted those, to us, more important topics――husbands,
housekeeping, and babies.”

“For those shall you require secret sessions? deliberating with closed
doors?” asked the doctor.

“Perhaps that you will learn in due time. Cousin Mildred, I have
learned that, like myself, you have a great fondness for both books
and music.”

“Yes; and I have been rejoicing in the certainty that plenty of books
worth reading will always be found where Cousin Horace is.”

From that the talk turned upon books and authors.

The little girls, both sufficiently intelligent and well informed to
understand and appreciate the remarks of their elders, were quiet but
interested listeners. Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore were attentive to their
wants as well as to those of the older guests, and the table was well
served by several skilled waiters.

There was an hour of pleasant social intercourse in the parlor, after
leaving the supper-room, then the travellers bade good-night to their
host and hostess, pleading fatigue as an excuse for retiring so early.

“Don’t stay in your cousin’s room talking, but let her get to bed and
to sleep at once,” Mr. Dinsmore said to Elsie, as the little girls
were about to leave the room.

“Yes, papa,” Elsie answered; then going to his side and speaking in an
undertone, “Mayn’t I come back to you for a little while? you know it
is not my bedtime yet.”

“Yes, if you choose.”

“You know, papa, I always do like to sit here a little while just the
last thing before going to my room for the night,” she said a few
minutes later as she took possession of his knee.

“Not better than I like to have you do so,” he answered, putting his
arm about her. “Whatever should I do without my little pet daughter?”

Rose, sitting on the opposite side of the fire, with her babe in her
arms, regarded them with loving, admiring eyes.

“What are the plans for to-morrow’s enjoyment with Annis, little
girlie?” she asked, with real motherly interest.

“I think we’ll drive about a good deal, mamma. Papa says we may; just
as much as we please.”

“Always supposing you will remember to have mercy on the ponies,” he
added, playfully.

“Oh, yes, sir! yes, indeed! Please say how long you think we may drive
without hurting them at all?”

“I presume a couple of hours of moderate exercise will not injure
them,” he answered, still using his playful tone.

“I suppose we shall have callers from Roselands and Ion to-morrow,”
Rose remarked to her husband.

“Yes, no doubt. And I think we should give a family dinner party as
soon as our friends have had time to recover from the fatigue of their
journey.”

“Our Ion friends to be included of course?” Rose said, half
inquiringly, half in assertion.

“Oh, yes. I have few relatives who seem nearer than Travilla and his
good mother. She was, as I believe I have told you before, an intimate
and dear friend of my own mother. What is it, Elsie?”

The little girl was sitting in silence on his knee, her eyes fixed
thoughtfully upon the carpet, and a slightly troubled look had come
over her face.

“Please don’t ask me, papa,” she said, blushing.

“But I have asked you.”

“I――I was only thinking if Enna comes with the rest――”

“Well,” as she paused, seemingly unwilling to finish her sentence.

“O papa, I oughtn’t to think unkind things! I’ll try not to.”

“I’m not going to have you abused,” he said, after a moment’s silence;
“so if Enna makes you any trouble with the ponies, or in any other
way, I’m to know it. Remember that.” Then kissing her two or three
times, “Now say good-night to your mamma and go to your bed.”

Elsie lingered for a moment clinging about his neck and gazing into
his eyes with a wistful, half-pleading look.

“No,” he said, in answer to her mute request. “I shall not have Enna
domineering over you in her accustomed fashion; and if she attempts it
you are to tell me all about it. Will you obey me in this?”

“Yes, papa; I know I must,” she said with a slight sigh and a look of
some surprise that he should ask the question. “Good-night.”

As she left the room he turned to his wife with the remark, “Enna is
the most insufferably arrogant piece! and there would be no limit to
her ill-treatment of Elsie if I did not insist on being informed of
it. And it is hard for her either way, poor child! for she has no
fancy for telling tales.”

“That is why you so seldom invite Enna here or take Elsie to
Roselands?”

“Precisely.”

Rain was falling heavily when Elsie woke the next morning. She started
up in bed and sat for a moment listening to it with a feeling of keen
disappointment, for evidently there could be no out-of-door amusement
while the storm lasted. “But our kind heavenly Father sends it, and he
knows and always does what is best for us,” was the quickly following
thought. “Beside there are ever so many pleasant ways of passing the
time in the house. I wonder if Annis is awake?”

Slipping out of bed, she ran lightly across the room, and peeping in
at the open door saw that her cousin was still sleeping soundly.

At that moment her father’s voice was heard from the opposite
door-way, “Elsie, my child, don’t run about in your bare feet. The
morning is damp and chilly and you will take cold.”

She turned at the first word, ran to him, and before the sentence was
finished he had her in his arms.

Lifting her up he laid her in her bed again, drew the covers closely
about her, saying, “Lie still now until you are quite warm;” then
bending down to caress her, “Here are your warm slippers and
dressing-gown close at hand,” he said; “why did you not put them on,
as I did mine?”

“I didn’t stop to think, papa,” she answered, putting an arm round his
neck. “Good-morning, you dear father, you’re as careful of me as if I
were a wax doll.”

“A great deal more so,” he said with playful look and tone. “It would
be an easy thing to replace a wax doll, but money wouldn’t buy another
little girl like mine. How it storms!” glancing toward the windows. “I
am sorry for your sake, but you and Annis shall have every in-door
enjoyment I can give you.”

“Yes, papa, thank you; and I know we’ll have a nice time. Just think
of all the lovely dolls and toys you have given me, and that will be
new to Annis. And I’ve so many nice books and pictures, and there’s
the piano and――”

“Well, that will do for the present. I’m glad I have a little girl who
can bear disappointments cheerfully. Lie still until the fires here
and in your dressing-room are well under way and the rooms comfortably
warm,” he said, as he left her, closing the door after him.

“Elsie, are you awake?” asked Annis from her room.

“Yes; but papa won’t let me get up yet. Oh, don’t you want to come and
lie here beside me till I may? if you won’t catch cold coming. Please
put on your slippers and dressing-gown first.”

“Catch cold just running across two rooms with such soft warm carpets
on the floor?” laughed Annis, hastening to accept the invitation. “I’m
not so delicate as all that comes to, Miss Dinsmore. Oh, isn’t it good
to be here with you, you darling!” creeping close to Elsie, and
hugging her tight. “Except when I think of mother and father so far
away,” she added with a sigh, the tears starting to her eyes for an
instant.

“Yes, I’m so sorry for that!” Elsie returned with warm sympathy. “How
nice it will be when we all get to heaven and never have to part any
more!”

There was a moment’s thoughtful silence, then a talk beginning with
regrets that the storm would prevent their intended out-door
diversion, soon exchanged for plans for passing their time
delightfully in the house.

Annis had naturally a great flow of animal spirits, and there had been
nothing in her life thus far to check it. Sheltered in the home nest,
the youngest of the tribe, and as such shielded, petted, and indulged
by parents, brothers, and sisters, she had known nothing of care,
sorrow, or labor beyond what her young strength could easily endure.
Merry, frank, fearless, affectionate, and thoroughly conscientious and
true, she was the most suitable and enjoyable of companions for Elsie.

The two appeared at the breakfast-table with very bright, happy faces.
Indeed the weather did not seem to have a depressing effect upon any
one’s spirits. The talk about the hospitable board was gay and lively,
the travellers reported themselves greatly refreshed and strengthened
by a good night’s sleep and ready to enjoy books, work, or play.

“What has Elsie proposed for your entertainment to-day, Annis?” asked
Mr. Dinsmore.

“Oh, we’re going to have a fine time with the dolls and baby-house the
first thing. I’ve had a peep at them already and never did see such
beauties!” cried the little girl in a burst of admiration.

“Ah,” said her interlocutor, smiling. “And there will be a tea-party
or two I suppose? Well, when you tire of the dolls we’ll find
something else.”

“Are they prettier than Mildred’s and my dollie, Annis?” asked the
doctor.

“Oh no, Brother Charlie! of course not. And I forgot, we did think
we’d have a little play with the live babies first of all. I haven’t
seen little Horace yet at all.”

“Nor I Cousin Milly’s baby,” put in Elsie, “because he was so sound
asleep when you came.”

“We’ll have them both brought to the parlor after prayers, shall we
not, cousin?” Rose said, looking at Mildred, who gave a ready assent
to the proposal.

“By all means,” laughed the doctor, “let us introduce them to each
other, and satisfy ourselves by comparison which is the finer child.
No doubt we shall all agree.”

“Agree to disagree, probably,” said Mr. Dinsmore. “I am entirely
satisfied that no finer child than ours can be discovered anywhere.
And I know Rose and Elsie are of the same opinion.”

“Yes,” remarked the doctor, “I see it in Elsie’s eyes. But no matter;
I have Mildred and Annis to side with me in the same opinion of our
bairnie.”

“Ah, don’t be too sure of Annis! she may prove more unprejudiced than
you suppose,” laughed Mr. Dinsmore.

The others laughed in turn as Annis quietly remarked, “Percy is quite
as pretty and smart as any baby could possibly be, Cousin Horace.”

And it was evident that her opinion remained the same even after she
had looked with delight and admiration upon the indisputably bright
and beautiful babe Mr. Dinsmore so proudly claimed as his own.

“Ours is the largest,” Elsie said when the two were brought into the
parlor. “But, O Cousin Milly, yours too is _so_ sweet and pretty!
Papa, he can’t be quite so heavy as Horace; mayn’t I take him?”

“If his mother is willing, you may hold him on your lap while you sit
still in that low chair; I don’t forbid you to hold Horace in that
way, but you are not to carry either of them about.”

“Your father is wise and kind in making that rule, Elsie,” said the
doctor. “Little girls like you very often suffer serious injury from
carrying younger children. I wouldn’t advise you to do much of it,
Annis.”

“Oh, I’m so strong it can’t hurt me, Brother Charlie,” answered Annis
gayly, but Mildred said, “I’ll see that she doesn’t do much of it.”

When the babes were carried away to the nursery the little girls
deemed it time to busy themselves with the dolls.

But first Mildred and the doctor were taken in to see Elsie’s rooms
and the baby-house, Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore going along.

“Oh, what a lovely boudoir!” Mildred exclaimed, taking a critical and
delighted survey of it. “Elsie dear, it is fit for a princess! and
full of evidences of a fond father’s taste and affection,” she added,
with a glance at her cousin, whose hand was toying with his daughter’s
curls as she stood at his side.

Elsie’s eyes were lifted to his face with a loving, grateful look as
she answered, “Yes, Cousin Milly, and that’s the very best of it.”

Annis grew enthusiastic over the dolls, “so many and so beautiful;
some of them so like real live babies;” and when Elsie opened a deep
drawer in a bureau and displayed quantities of pretty dress materials
ready to be made into garments for them, beside ribbons, laces, and
flowers, all intended for their adornment――although each had already
several changes of raiment――her eyes fairly danced with delight.

The morning was all too short for the fascinating employment of
turning over all those lovely things and exercising taste and skill in
making them up into dresses, bonnets, etc.

Elsie said her father had been on the point of buying her a
sewing-machine, but had decided that she must first become an
accomplished needlewoman.

A little while before dinner Mr. Dinsmore came in and made them leave
their sewing for a romping play, because he said the exercise would do
them good.

The evening was spent very pleasantly in the parlor with the older
people, who joined with them in some quiet games, and when separating
for the night all agreed that, spite of the inclemency of the weather,
the day had been a short and enjoyable one.




CHAPTER X.

  “Oh, happy you! who, blest with present bliss,
     See not with fatal prescience future tears,
   Nor the dear moment of enjoyment miss
     Through gloomy discontent or sullen fears.”
                                          ――MRS. TIGHE.


Morning broke bright and clear. The little girls took a short drive
before breakfast and a longer one soon after; the attractions of the
ponies and phaeton quite eclipsing for the time those of dolls and
baby-house.

Annis was taken to the stables to see Elsie’s other two ponies――very
pretty creatures of larger size than the Shetlands――and a number of
fine riding and carriage horses belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore.
She was pleased with the sight and eager to learn to ride.

“I never was on horseback,” she said, “or ponyback either,” she added
laughingly; “but I’ve always wanted to learn; more than ever since I
saw you on your pony the other day, Elsie. It seemed so easy and so
nice for you to ride him.”

Mr. Dinsmore, who was with them, offered to teach her, and to give the
first lesson that afternoon.

“Thank you, Cousin Horace, I’ll be very glad to have you do so,” she
said; “but you’ll be pretty sure to find me very awkward, and will
have many a laugh at my expense, I dare say.”

“I hope we shall not show ourselves so rude as that,” returned Mr.
Dinsmore pleasantly; “or be so unreasonable as to expect good
horsemanship from you at the start. Elsie had been riding for several
years when I first took her in hand, yet I found there were some
things relating to the art that I could teach her.”

“And papa is such a nice teacher, Annis,” Elsie said, looking up at
him with loving admiration; “he never calls you stupid and never gets
the least bit out of patience, no matter how dull or awkward you are.”

“Elsie makes a good trumpeter, and without any instruction in that
line,” was Mr. Dinsmore’s laughing comment on her remark.

The little girls had driven to the stables and the pretty phaeton
stood before the door with the ponies still attached.

“Papa,” said Elsie, “I have taken Annis all round the grounds twice,
may we go outside now?”

“Yes, if you will accept of my escort, but not otherwise.”

“Oh, we’ll be only too glad, papa!” was Elsie’s eager rejoinder; and
turning to a servant, Mr. Dinsmore bade him saddle a horse for him to
ride.

They drove several miles, Mr. Dinsmore keeping by the side of the
phaeton all the way and making himself extremely pleasant and
entertaining.

When they came in sight of the house again a carriage stood before the
front entrance.

“Ah! I thought we should have callers from Roselands to-day,” remarked
Mr. Dinsmore.

“And from Ion too, papa,” said Elsie as a second carriage came into
view.

“Yes, I see. Mrs. Travilla must be here; for her son never comes in
that when alone.”

The Ion carriage had arrived first. It was more than an hour now since
Mildred had been summoned to the drawing-room to meet the elderly lady
she had learned to love so dearly in her former visit to this region
of country.

They met in a close, tender embrace, followed by a long talk seated
side by side and hand in hand on a sofa; while Rose entertained Mr.
Travilla on the farther side of the spacious apartment.

Then Dr. Landreth came in from a walk, was greeted as an old friend,
and the babies were brought from the nursery to be duly admired and
caressed.

These last were still engrossing the attention of their elders when
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, from Roselands, and Miss Adelaide were
announced.

Mrs. Dinsmore, as richly and gayly dressed as of yore, but looking
still more faded and worn, especially in contrast to the fresh young
beauty of her daughter, greeted Mildred with languid affection, nodded
to the other occupants of the room, and sank into the depths of an
easy-chair as if completely exhausted by the unusual exertion.

Mr. Dinsmore’s greeting was warm and hearty. “Glad, very glad to see
you, Milly, my dear. Young and fresh still――as why shouldn’t you
be?――but growing more like your mother; and that’s the highest
compliment I could pay you or any one.”

“Yes,” sneered the lady in the easy-chair, “Mr. Dinsmore has an eye
for the charms of every woman except his wife.”

But no one heeded or seemed to hear the remark.

Mildred had taken the hand of the younger lady, saying, as she gazed
with affectionate admiration into the blooming face, “And this is
Adelaide? You were but a child when I saw you last――eight years ago.”

“And now I am very nearly as old as my Sister Rose, who is already a
wife and mother,” was the smiling rejoinder.

“Rose must have married very young,” said Mildred, looking admiringly
at her cousin’s wife.

“My mother thought so,” said Rose playfully, “and for Adelaide’s sake
I shall not deny it.”

At this moment her husband came in with the two little girls; fresh
greetings had to be exchanged and Annis introduced to those present
who had never seen her before.

Elsie glanced about the room and felt a sense of relief in perceiving
that Enna was not there.

Mildred noticed that while Mr. and Mrs. Travilla and Adelaide all
greeted the little girl with affectionate warmth, her grandfather and
his wife returned her respectful salutation, the one with cool
indifference, the other with scarcely concealed aversion.

Her father saw it too; his cheek flushed, his eye flashed, and
beckoning Elsie to his side, he put his arm about her, and held her
there, now and then caressing her hair and cheek with his other hand
while he conversed with his friends.

“Horace,” his stepmother remarked in a tone of impatience, when at
length a pause in the conversation afforded an opportunity, “it is
perfectly absurd!――the way you have of petting and fondling that great
girl as if she were nothing but a baby!”

“Well, madam,” he returned with a slight smile, “so long as it pleases
her and myself I cannot see that any one else need object. When you
are tired of it, Elsie,” he added, gazing fondly down into the sweet
little face now blushing rosy red and half hidden on his shoulder, “I
shall stop.”

“I’m not tired! I never shall be tired of it, papa!” she answered with
impulsive warmth; “but,” and her voice fell almost to a whisper,
“mayn’t Annis and I run away now for a little while?”

“Yes,” he said, releasing her, and with a sign to Annis, who rose and
followed with joyful alacrity, she hastened from the room.

The two were presently busied again with the dolls and their
adornments, chatting and laughing gayly together as they worked.

“Annis, don’t you think I have just the nicest, kindest father in the
world?” asked Elsie.

“Except mine; he is just as good and kind to me.”

“Oh, yes, of course! I forgot Uncle Stuart.”

“I don’t――” began Annis, then checked herself and began anew. “Does
Cousin Horace never call Aunt Dinsmore mother?”

“No,” Elsie said, with a look that seemed to say such an idea had
never before occurred to her; “she isn’t his mother.”

“Just as much as Cousin Rose is yours,” returned Annis.

“But mamma is so sweet and kind; and――”

“And Aunt Dinsmore isn’t?” laughed Annis. “I don’t think I’d want to
call her mother myself or grandmother either.”

“I don’t believe she will ever let anybody call her grandma,” said
Elsie.

“Cousin Adelaide’s nice, isn’t she?”

“Yes, indeed! she was, oh so kind and good to me once when I was very
sick and papa away! I love her best of all my aunts, Lora next.”

Just then there was a tap at the door and Adelaide came in. “Well,
little ones,” she said, in a lively tone. “I have run away from the
older people to see what mischief you two are at. Making doll clothes,
hey? If I had my thimble here I’d help. As it is I must try to be
content to look on and perhaps favor you with a valuable suggestion
now and then,” she went on, taking satisfied possession of an
easy-chair. “We are all going to stay for dinner, by urgent request of
our host and hostess.”

“O Aunt Adie, I’m so glad!” exclaimed Elsie, “for I want you to see my
new ponies and phaeton.”

“Yes, Rose told me about them. I shall expect an invitation to drive
with you some day. Annis, your younger cousins――Louise, Lora, Walter,
and Enna――are expecting the pleasure of calling upon you this
afternoon. Lessons prevented this morning. By the way, Elsie, what has
become of yours?”

“Papa has given me a holiday for the rest of this week.”

“How he pets you!”

“Yes, auntie; but am I not kept to lessons more steadily than Enna
is?”

“Yes; a good deal more. I don’t think he spoils you with all his
petting.”

A bell rang, and Elsie, putting down her work, said, “It’s time to
dress for dinner, Annis. Aunt Adie will excuse us.”

“I’ll go with you,” Adelaide said, following them into the
dressing-room. “I want to see what you have that is new and pretty,
Elsie; your papa is always buying you something.”

“Yes; and tell me what to wear, auntie. Papa often does, but he didn’t
to-day.”

Adelaide, going to a wardrobe, took down one beautiful dress after
another, and finally selected a pale blue of some sort of silk and
wool material, very soft and fine, delicately embroidered and edged
with rich lace in neck and sleeves.

“There, that must be very becoming I know, though I have never seen
you in it,” she said.

“Dat’s so, Miss Adelaide, my chile look mighty sweet in dat dress,”
remarked Aunt Chloe, taking it from her hand and hastening to array
her nursling in it, while Adelaide, opening a bureau-drawer, then a
jewel-case, took from the former a handsome sash, matching the dress
in color, and from the latter pearl necklace and bracelets, saying,
“These will go nicely with it.”

“Oh, how lovely!” cried Annis, hurrying in from her room. “Cousin
Adie, will you fasten my dress, please? I can do everything else for
myself, but not that very well.”

“Yes, dear; excuse my neglect in not offering you help with your
toilet,” Adelaide answered. “How pretty and becoming this
peach-blossom dress is! but, like Elsie, you have a complexion which
everything suits.”

“Hers is much prettier than mine, though,” was the modest rejoinder.

Adelaide thought as she glanced from one to the other, that it would
be difficult to find anywhere two more attractive-looking children.

The impromptu dinner party seemed quite a grand affair to little
home-bred Annis; yet, seated between Elsie and Mr. Travilla, who was a
general favorite with little girls, she felt but slight embarrassment,
and really enjoyed herself very much.

She and Elsie returned with the older people to the drawing-room, and
were chatting together beside a front window when a carriage drove up
and two very stylishly-dressed young ladies alighted, followed by a
little girl and boy.

“Are they the cousins from Roselands?” Annis asked.

“Yes,” Elsie said. “Oh, I hope they won’t want to take you away from
me! I heard grandpa say to Cousin Milly that of course you must all
spend part of your time at Roselands.”

“I don’t want to,” whispered Annis, as the drawing-room door was
thrown open and the new arrivals were announced.

The greetings and introductions over, Lora seated herself near her
younger cousin and niece and opened a conversation, questioning Annis
about her journey and the family at home, and expressing the hope of
soon seeing her at Roselands.

Then Walter and Enna came up, looking eager and excited, and asking
both together to be shown the new phaeton and ponies.

“How did you know of them?” asked Elsie.

“How shouldn’t we know when the servants are going back and forth all
the time?” returned Walter. “I say, Elsie, have them harnessed up now
and let me drive them. Won’t you?”

“Ask papa about it, Walter; he is the one to decide.”

“No; you ask him; he’ll maybe say no to me, but he won’t to you.”

“I don’t know,” Elsie returned with a slight smile, “he has often said
it to me when he didn’t approve of my wishes; but I’ll ask him.” And
she went at once to him with the request, where he sat on the other
side of the room talking with Mrs. Travilla and Cousin Mildred.

“Walter has learned how to drive, and I think may be trusted if he
promises to be gentle with the ponies, and not use a whip,” Mr.
Dinsmore answered. “But they are yours, daughter, and you yourself
shall decide whether you will lend them to him or not.”

“Thank you, papa,” she said, and went slowly back.

“Well, what did he say?” asked Walter.

“That I might decide it myself. Walter, will you promise to be kind
and gentle and not touch my ponies with a whip?”

“Pshaw! what a question! But I promise. How long can I have them?”

“For half an hour, and to drive only about the grounds,” said Mr.
Dinsmore, coming up to the little group. “I don’t want them tired, for
I have promised to give a certain young lady a riding lesson with one
of them this afternoon.”

“Half an hour! that’s no time at all!” pouted Enna.

“What difference does it make to you?” asked Mr. Dinsmore.

“Why, I’m to go with him, of course!”

“Wouldn’t it be more polite to let Annis go? Annis, you needn’t be
afraid to trust to Walter’s driving.”

“Oh, no, Cousin Horace! but as I have been twice already in the
phaeton, I should prefer to have Enna go this time,” Annis answered
with hearty entreaty.

“They are at the door now; I ordered them some time ago, knowing that
some of you would like to take a drive,” Mr. Dinsmore said.

Walter and Enna hurried from the room without waiting――the one to urge
Annis to go, or the other to thank her for giving up in her favor.

When they came back they did not look as if they had enjoyed
themselves greatly. Enna was pouting and Walter’s face was flushed and
angry.

“I’ll not take her again,” he said aside to Elsie; “she did nothing
but abuse me all the way because I wouldn’t let her drive; and three
or four times she tried to jerk the reins out of my hands.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Elsie, “I’m so glad it was not I who was driving!”

“Why?”

“Because I should have had to tell papa all about it.”

“You don’t tell tales!” exclaimed Walter, with a look of surprise.

“I dislike to very much indeed!” she answered, her cheeks growing hot,
“but papa has ordered me to tell him whenever Enna tries to domineer
over me, and you know I have to obey him.”

“Yes, that is quite true. Horace is one of the sort that won’t let you
off any way at all. It’s hard on you too; but I’ll tell you what, I’ll
warn Miss Enna, and maybe it’ll make her behave herself when she’s
with you.”




CHAPTER XI.

   “I shall the effect of this good lesson keep.”
                                           ――SHAKESPEARE.


“Sister Milly, may I come in?”

It was Annis at the door of Mildred’s boudoir, where she sat
meditating with her babe in her arms.

“Yes, dear, I’m glad you came,” she answered in low, sweet tones. “I
don’t see much of you now that Elsie has taken possession,” she went
on, smoothing her little sister’s hair with tender, caressing hand as
the child knelt at her side to pet and fondle little Percy.

“’Tisn’t because I don’t love you just as well as ever!” Annis
answered with quick, impulsive warmth, holding up her face for a kiss,
which was given very heartily. “I wouldn’t be here without you, Milly,
for anything. And yet I’m having the very nicest kind of a time.
Sometimes I think it’s just like a fairy tale with so many lovely
things about, and Elsie dressed like a princess, and the ponies and
phaeton, the beautiful dolls and all.”

Mildred laughed a little and stroked the soft curls again.

“And you are enjoying yourself, dear?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed! but――” sighing and laying her head against
Mildred’s knee, “I wish I could see father and mother! It makes me the
least little bit homesick once in a while to see Cousin Horace petting
Elsie.”

“Yes, my little pet sister, and I should like to see them too, but we
can’t have everything at once. We have these dear friends now, and
hope to have the other and still dearer ones next spring.”

“Milly, you know you offered to hear my lessons while we are here, but
Cousin Horace says he will teach me along with Elsie, if I like.”

“That is very kind, and I think will be much nicer for you, because he
knows very much more than I do, and how to impart his knowledge, and
you will enjoy having a companion in your studies, especially so sweet
a one as Elsie.”

“Yes; and she says it will be pleasanter for her. Then it will save
you some trouble too. We’re to begin next Monday morning. Milly, don’t
you like Mr. Travilla?”

“Yes, very much; and I love his mother dearly. She wants us to spend
part of our time with them at Ion. And we must visit Roselands too.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

“Of course the greater portion of the winter will be spent here.
Perhaps a week at each of the other places will be enough.”

The visitors for the day had all gone from the Oaks, and when Rose
went to the nursery, Mildred to her room, and Annis presently slipped
away to follow her sister, while Dr. Landreth seemed buried in a book,
Mr. Dinsmore said to Elsie, “Come with me, daughter,” and led the way
to his private study.

“Oh, it’s nice to be here alone with you again, papa!” she exclaimed
as he sat down and drew her to his knee.

“Yes, we don’t spend so much time alone together nowadays as has been
our custom,” he said, drawing her closer to him. “But I hope my little
girl is enjoying herself?”

“Oh, yes indeed, papa! I think Annis is the very nicest little friend
I’ve ever had.”

“She ought to be, considering how thoroughly well she has been brought
up. But I brought you in here to teach you a lesson.”

Elsie opened her eyes wide in surprise. “Why, papa, I thought you said
I was to have a holiday all week! and this is only Friday evening!”

“That’s a fact!” he said, as if she had brought to his recollection
something he had forgotten, “and as I am particular about keeping my
promises, I shall not insist on teaching you the intended lesson. We
will leave it until next week if you prefer that.”

She considered a moment, then said, “Papa, I will learn it now, if you
please.”

“I think you will not regret your decision,” he answered, with a
gratified look. Then turning to his writing-desk, which was close at
hand, he took from it a thin paper-covered book, and opening it showed
her that the leaves were composed of blank forms of checks.

“The lesson I want to teach you,” he said, “is how to fill these up
properly. I have placed one thousand dollars in bank to your credit,
and this book is for your use so that you may draw out the money as
you want it.”

She looked surprised, pleased, and yet a little puzzled.

“You are very kind, papa,” she said; “but you give me so much pocket
money that I never should know what use to make of it all if I
couldn’t give it away.”

“But you enjoy giving, and I am very glad you do. At Christmas time
you always need extra money for that purpose; and Christmas will be
coming again some weeks hence. Will you not wish to give some handsome
presents to these cousins here? and enjoy making up a Christmas box
for those in Indiana?”

“O papa, what a nice idea!” she cried, clapping her hands. “And may I
spend all that thousand dollars?”

“Perhaps; we will see about it. Now for the lesson.”

He showed her how to fill up the blank spaces with the number, date,
amount, and where to sign her name, giving a simple and clear
explanation of the why and wherefore of it all; then let her practise
on several of the forms, till she grew quite proficient.

She was greatly pleased and interested. “It’s very nice, papa! how
kind you are to teach me!”

“I want as early as possible to make you capable of managing your own
business affairs,” he said, stroking her hair, “so that if I should be
taken from you――”

“O papa,” she interrupted, her eyes filling with sudden tears, “don’t
talk about that! how could I ever bear it!”

“My child,” he said with a tender caress, “I am in perfect health and,
coming of a long-lived race, seem as likely to live to extreme old age
as any one I know; but life is uncertain to us all, and it is the part
of wisdom to try to be prepared for any event. You inherit large
wealth from your mother, but riches, as the Bible tells us, take wings
and fly away; are especially apt to do so with a woman who knows
little or nothing about business. I would not have you at the mercy of
sharpers and fortune-hunters, so am determined not to allow you to
grow up either too lazy or too ignorant to take care of your own
affairs. I shall teach you how to write an order, a receipt for money,
to make out a bill, and so on. But this lesson will do for to-day.”

“Now these forms you have filled out must be destroyed,” he went on,
tearing them up and throwing the fragments into the fire as he spoke.
“Do you understand why?”

“No, sir.”

“Because, bearing your signature, they would be honored at the bank
where you have money on deposit; that is, any one getting hold of and
presenting them at the bank would be paid the sums named in them out
of your money, and then you would lose just that amount. So if you
want to give or pay money to anybody, your check on a bank where you
have money deposited will answer the same purpose as the cash;
provided it be not drawn for a larger sum than you have there. Do you
understand it all now?”

“Yes, papa, I think I do. May I tell Annis about it?”

“If you wish,” he said with a smile. “Annis is worthy of all
confidence. You may take the check-book and go over your lesson to
her; it will help to impress it on your memory.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” and away she ran in search of her cousin.

Annis was still in Mildred’s room, chatting with her sister and
playing with the baby.

She opened the door in answer to Elsie’s gentle rap.

“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you!” she said. “Come in, won’t you?”

“Am I not intruding?” asked Elsie.

“No, no, dear child!” replied Mildred, “Annis and I were just wishing
for your company.”

“Oh, I am glad you wanted me,” said the little girl, taking a low
chair by Mildred’s side. “I should have come sooner, but I’ve been
with papa, learning such a nice lesson!” and opening her check-book
she went on to tell all about it, for she felt sure he would not
object to having Mildred hear it as well as Annis.

Both seemed much interested, and said they thought it a very nice
lesson indeed, Annis adding, “And very delightful to have so much
money where you can get it whenever you want it.”

“Yes,” Elsie said, “but I don’t believe papa meant that I could ever
take any of it out without asking his permission. And I always have to
keep an account to show him what I have done with every cent he has
given me to spend.”

“That must be a great deal of trouble!” Annis remarked, with a slight
shrug of her shoulders.

“But an excellent lesson too,” Mildred said, smiling into Elsie’s
bright, happy face.

“Yes, cousin; papa always knows and does the very best thing for me,”
the little girl responded, with a look of perfect content.

At breakfast next morning the gentlemen announced that business called
them to the city, and invited both the ladies and the little girls to
drive in with them.

The latter joyfully accepted, but the ladies preferred a quiet day at
home.

“Now, little girls,” Mr. Dinsmore said, as they rose from the table,
“the carriage will be at the door in half an hour, and I should like
you to be ready by that time. But, Elsie, I want you in the study for
a little while the first thing.”

He walked away in that direction as he spoke, and she tripped gayly
after him.

“I’m going to the bank to get a check cashed; would you like to do the
same?” he asked, turning to her with a kind, fatherly smile, as he
opened his writing-desk.

“Yes, papa. You will go with me and show me just what to do?”

“Of course, my pet. If I thought there was any danger of your going
there without me for years to come, I should very positively forbid
it.”

“Ah,” she said, with a contented little laugh, “I was pretty sure you
didn’t mean to let me get out some of that money just whenever I
pleased.”

“No, you are quite too young for such latitude as that. Now sit down
here and let me see how well you remember yesterday’s lesson,” he
said, dipping a pen into the ink and putting it into her hand, as she
took the designated seat.

“How much money shall I write it for, papa?” she asked.

“Any sum you please not over fifty dollars.”

“I think twenty-five will do,” she said, and drew the check correctly
for that amount.

“Very nicely done, daughter,” he commented in a pleased tone. “Now
fold and put it into your purse.”

“What will you have me wear, papa?” she asked.

“The blue velvet suit; unless you prefer some other equally suitable
to the occasion.”

“All I care about it is to please my papa,” she said, smiling up at
him.

“That being the case it is well that papa has good taste, isn’t it?”
he said sportively, stroking her hair and stooping to touch his lips
to the pure white forehead. “Now run away and tell Aunt Chloe to dress
you immediately.”

“Yes, sir, it won’t take long; because it is only to change my dress
and put on hat, coat, and gloves.”

Annis, now quite ready excepting her gloves, was in her own room, the
door of communication with Elsie’s apartments open as usual. Mildred,
too, was there superintending her little sister’s toilet.

“Is Mammy here?” Elsie asked, looking in. “Oh, no, I see she is not.
I’ll have to ring for her, because there is no time to wait, and I’m
sorry, for I’m afraid she is eating her breakfast.”

“Let me help you instead,” said Mildred. “You see I have quite
finished with Annis.”

“I don’t like to trouble you, Cousin Milly.”

“It will be no trouble, dear, but a pleasure. And I should like to
make some small return to your good Mammy for the help she gives Annis
with her dressing.”

So Elsie accepted with thanks, adding merrily, “Won’t Mammy be
astonished! She thinks nobody can dress me but herself.”

While the dressing was going on Elsie told with glee what she had been
doing in the study, and that she was to be taken to the bank there to
present the check herself.

Annis was greatly interested. “I hope I can go along and see you do
it,” she said. “But won’t you feel a little frightened?”

“Not with papa close beside me.”

“That makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it, dear?”
Mildred said, finishing her labors with a kiss upon the round, rosy
cheek.

“Me too, Milly,” Annis said, holding up her face. “Now good-by, and
take good care of my little nephew while I’m gone.”

“Yes. Run away now and don’t keep the gentlemen waiting. The carriage
has just driven round to the side entrance.”

“Good girls! you should have a medal for punctuality,” Dr. Landreth
remarked, meeting them on the veranda.

“And for bright, happy faces,” added Mr. Dinsmore, handing them to the
carriage.

“I don’t think little girls who have everything in the world to make
them happy deserve much credit for that, Cousin Horace,” said Annis.

“Well, perhaps not; but there are people who can always find something
to growl or fret about.”

The little girls were very merry during the drive, and neither
gentleman showed the slightest inclination to check their
mirthfulness. But for that there was no occasion, since there was not
the least approach to rudeness in any of its manifestations.

On reaching the city they drove directly to the bank in which Mr.
Dinsmore and Elsie were depositors. They all went in together, and
Annis looked on with great interest while Elsie handed in her check,
received the money, and counted it under her father’s supervision.

They spent some hours in the city, sight-seeing and shopping, and
returned home to a late dinner, the children rather weary, but in fine
spirits and full of merry talk about all they had seen and done.

In the mean while the two ladies had found equal enjoyment at home,
spending the day very quietly in Rose’s boudoir, each busy in the
fashioning of a dainty garment for her baby-boy, and talking together
as they worked.

Both young――though Mildred was Rose’s senior by several years――both
happily married, tender mothers, highly cultivated women, earnest
Christians, they soon discovered that they had very much in common.

Naturally their talk was at first of the pretty work with which their
hands were busied, then of the little ones for whose adornment it was
intended, then of their husbands and the days of their courtship. Each
already had some slight knowledge of the other’s experience, but now
became more fully acquainted with it. Mildred told something of her
hard trial in the long years of doubt and uncertainty while she knew
not where her beloved wanderer was, and of the support and comfort she
found in the presence and love of One nearer and dearer still.

Rose had not yet known any trial more severe than the parting from
parents, brothers, and sisters, and the loved home of her childhood,
but she too could talk of sweet experiences of that “Love divine all
love excelling.”

“Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another: and the
Lord hearkened, and heard it, and a book of remembrance was written
before him for them that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his
name. And they shall be mine, saith the Lord of hosts, in that day
when I make up my jewels; and I will spare them, as a man spareth his
own son that serveth him.”




CHAPTER XII.

  “I want a sweet sense of Thy pardoning love,
     That my manifold sins are forgiven;
   That Christ as my Advocate pleadeth above,
     That my name is recorded in Heaven.”


“Well, Annis, will you take a riding lesson this afternoon?” asked Mr.
Dinsmore as they left the dinner-table; then seeing the little girl
hesitate in her reply, “Ah, I think you are tired and would prefer a
nap.”

“Yes, sir, I believe I should, if――” again she hesitated.

“If I will not feel hurt?” he asked with a smile. “No, not in the
least. And I advise Elsie to try a siesta too. Then we older people
shall have two bright little girls to help our enjoyment of the
evening.”

Elsie thought it a very nice plan, and the two went away together to
carry it out.

“Your prescription seems to have worked well, Dinsmore,” was Dr.
Landreth’s smiling remark as the two young faces showed themselves in
the parlor shortly before tea, rosy, bright, and beaming with health
and happiness.

“Yes; I find there is no other restorer of wearied nature equal to
restful sleep,” Mr. Dinsmore said, regarding his little girl with his
wonted look of proud, fond, fatherly affection. “Are you quite rested,
daughter?” he asked, drawing her to his side.

“Yes, sir, I don’t believe I shall need any more sleep till after ten
o’clock to-night,” she answered, looking straight into his eyes with
an arch, sweet smile.

“Ah,” he said, with amusement, “quite an adroit way of putting a
request to be allowed to stay up beyond the regular hour for retiring.
Well, we’ll see about it when the time comes.”

“And Elsie will be contented with papa’s decision, whatever it may
be,” added Rose, smiling affectionately upon the little girl.

“Are you not fond of going to bed early, Elsie?” asked the doctor.

“Yes, sir, generally; but I think it is very nice to stay up a little
later sometimes, when papa is willing and I’m not sleepy.”

“And,” remarked Annis, “when the grown-up folks are playing games, or
talking in a very interesting way, it does seem hard for little folks
to have to go away and leave it all.”

“Yes,” said Mildred, “I can remember that I felt it so when I was a
child. Yet I mean to train my boy to go to his bed at a regular and
early hour, for I am convinced that it will be for his good.”

“I hope everybody wants to play with letters again to-night,” remarked
Annis; “because I’ve hunted up some very hard words for Cousin Horace
and Brother Charlie to make out.”

“You are not going to bestow all your favors upon them I hope,” Rose
said, playfully.

The older people being in an amiable mood, the wishes of both little
girls were gratified to some extent; the greater part of the evening
being spent in word-making, and Elsie permitted to stay up half an
hour beyond her regular bed-time.

Sunday always passed very quietly at the Oaks; the master and
mistress, having a supreme regard for the sacredness of the day, gave
no entertainments and allowed no unnecessary work in the house or on
the plantation. It was a time of peaceful Sabbath rest.

The church to which the family belonged was some miles distant, but
nothing except sickness or extremely inclement weather ever kept them
at home from the morning service――the only one held there.

The afternoon and evening were also profitably spent in studying the
Scriptures for themselves, and imparting their teachings to the
ignorant about them.

The first Sunday after the arrival of the cousins from Pleasant Plains
was clear and bright. The ladies and little girls drove to church in
the family carriage, the gentlemen accompanying them on horseback.

The short ride through a beautiful country, in the bright sunlight,
and pure, bracing autumn air, was a pleasant one to all; to Annis it
had the charm of novelty, to Dr. Landreth and Mildred that of
agreeable association. How often they had traversed that road
together, or met in the little church, during the winter she had spent
at Roselands years ago!

The Roselands family was represented to-day by Mr. Dinsmore, Adelaide,
and Lora. Mr. Travilla and his mother, from Ion, were present at the
service also, and at its close there was a little chat among them all
in the vestibule of the church――an exchange of kindly greetings and
inquiries ere the ladies were handed to their carriages and the
gentlemen mounted their steeds for the homeward trip.

“How do you spend the rest of the day, Elsie?” Annis asked, when they
found themselves again in Elsie’s pretty boudoir.

“Part of it in teaching the negroes about Jesus and the way to heaven.
Papa and mamma have classes of the grown-up ones, and I one of the
little boys and girls. I tell them Bible stories; sometimes from the
Old Testament and sometimes from the New. I have a simple little
catechism too that I teach them, by asking the questions and making
them repeat the answers after me,” Elsie replied, with an animation of
look and tone which showed that she felt greatly interested in her
work.

“I like best of all to talk to them about the wonderful love of
Jesus,” she went on; “how he left that beautiful heaven and came down
to our world, and labored and suffered and died the cruel death of the
cross; keeping God’s holy law for us, and bearing the penalty of our
sins; and how he rose again and ascended to heaven and ever lives
there to make intercession for us. O Annis, isn’t it the sweetest
story?”

Tears were trembling in the soft hazel eyes, and Annis, putting her
arms about her, said, “What a good little Christian you are, Elsie! I
wish I were one too.”

“Oh, I’m not at all good, Annis,” answered the little girl with
earnest sincerity; “but I do love Jesus. Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure. I do try to do right, but I so often do wrong that I’m
afraid I’m not a Christian.”

“But, O Annis, Christians are not people who never do wrong, but those
who trust only in the blood and merits of Jesus Christ; who expect to
be saved because of what he has done and suffered, and who long and
strive to be good and holy because they love him and want to please
him and be like him. Not because they expect to be saved by being
good. Don’t you remember the Bible says, ‘There is none that doeth
good, no, not one.’ ‘There is not a just man upon earth, that doeth
good, and sinneth not.’”

“Yes, I remember that, and that even the Apostle Paul said he couldn’t
do the good he wanted to, and couldn’t help doing the evil he didn’t
want to,” Annis said, thoughtfully. “I see the difference is that
Christians hate sin and want to be free from it because God hates it,
and it is dishonoring to him; and sinners love it and would only leave
it off for fear of punishment.”

“Yes, you know the Bible says, ‘Be ye therefore followers of God as
dear children’! Oh, I think I understand what that means! because,
loving my dear papa so much, and feeling so sure that I am a very dear
child to him, I almost always find it a real pleasure to obey him.”

“Yes, and I can understand it for the same reason. Isn’t it a sweet
text?”

“Yes, indeed! and, oh how many others there are that are ‘sweeter than
honey and the honeycomb’! as the Psalmist says,” Elsie exclaimed,
taking up her Bible and turning over its leaves.

“May I be with you while you talk to your little scholars?” asked
Annis.

“Oh, yes! if you wish; and perhaps you may like to teach some of them
yourself.”

“Well, maybe,” Annis answered, and just then the call to dinner came.

At the table Dr. Landreth asked Mr. Dinsmore the same question which
Elsie had answered to Annis, “How do you spend the rest of the day
here? I understand there is no afternoon or evening service near
enough for us to attend.”

“No, there is not,” replied Mr. Dinsmore; and went on to tell of the
afternoon instruction to the negroes.

“After that,” said he, “we usually fill up the time with suitable
reading, and I hear Elsie recite her catechism, passages of Scripture,
and perhaps a hymn or two. Most of our evening is usually spent in the
study of the Word――a Bible reading in which the three of us take part;
and we are very apt to have some sacred music after that. Will you and
Mildred and Annis join us in such exercises to-night?”

The invitation was accepted with pleasure by all three.

“What subject shall we take up to-night?” asked Mr. Dinsmore as they
gathered about the centre-table after tea, with Bibles, Concordance,
and Bible Text-Book.

“Christ a living Saviour,” suggested Mildred; “living still in both
his divine and his human nature.”

“There could not be a sweeter theme,” said Rose. “‘Who is he that
condemneth? It is Christ that died, yea, rather, that is risen again;
who is even at the right hand of God, who also maketh intercession for
us.’”

“I should like nothing better,” said the doctor.

“Nor I,” added Mr. Dinsmore. “I have often thought that while we
cannot dwell too much upon the theme of Christ’s life on earth and
atoning sacrifice――his sufferings and death in our stead――we do not
think and talk enough of his resurrection and ascension into heaven;
of his mediatorial work there. Here in Hebrews we are told, ‘This man,
because he continueth ever, hath an unchangeable priesthood. Wherefore
he is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by
him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them.’”

“Yes,” said Mildred, “I have thought much about it since a talk I had
some time ago with a gentleman friend who is, I believe, a true
Christian, yet surprised me greatly by remarking that he had always
thought Christ’s body ceased to exist after his death, because――so it
seemed to him――he had no further use for it.”

“A very strange and unscriptural idea!” exclaimed Rose. “Why the Bible
seems to me to teach a belief in the resurrection of Christ necessary
to salvation. ‘If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus,
and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the
dead, thou shalt be saved.’ And it was his human body that died, was
buried, and rose again.”

“What did your friend think became of it?” queried the doctor; “matter
is indestructible; and besides we are told that he saw no corruption.”

“Yes; in several passages. Here is one――Acts 13, beginning with verse
29,” and Mildred read aloud, “‘And when they had fulfilled all that
was written of him, they took him down from the tree, and laid him in
a sepulchre. But God raised him from the dead, and he was seen many
days of them which came up with him from Galilee to Jerusalem, who are
his witnesses unto the people. And we declare unto you glad tidings,
how that the promise which was made unto the fathers, God hath
fulfilled the same unto us their children, in that he hath raised up
Jesus again; as it is also written in the second psalm, Thou art my
Son, this day have I begotten thee. And as concerning that he raised
him up from the dead, now no more to return to corruption, he said on
this wise, I will give you the sure mercies of David. Wherefore he
saith also in another psalm, Thou shalt not suffer thine Holy One to
see corruption. For David, after he had served his own generation by
the will of God, fell on sleep, and was laid unto his fathers, and saw
corruption; but he, whom God raised again, saw no corruption.’”

“There we have the whole thing,” remarked her husband, “and as far as
proof is concerned, need look no farther.”

“But, oh, mayn’t we go on and hunt out other passages?” asked Elsie
eagerly.

“What have you there?” asked her father, for her Bible was open in her
hand.

“The fifteenth chapter of first Corinthians, beginning with the third
verse, papa: ‘For I delivered unto you first of all that which I also
received, how that Christ died for our sins according to the
Scriptures; and that he was buried, and that he rose again the third
day according to the Scriptures; and that he was seen of Cephas, then
of the twelve: after that he was seen of above five hundred brethren
at once: of whom the greater part remain unto this present, but some
are fallen asleep. After that he was seen of James, then of all the
apostles. And last of all he was seen of me also, as of one born out
of due time.’”

“Does Paul tell there of every time that the risen Saviour was seen
and recognized by those who had known him before his death?” asked Mr.
Dinsmore.

“Oh no indeed, papa! Mary Magdalen saw him in the garden just after he
had risen, and then―― But, Annis, don’t you want to tell of the
others?”

Annis looked her thanks, and added, “The two who were walking into the
country; the disciples met together in the upper room when Thomas
wasn’t with them, and afterward when he was with them; Peter and John
and some of the others when they were out in a boat fishing.”

Annis paused, and Mildred proposed that each passage bearing on the
subject should be sought out and read aloud, all taking turns.

“Not a link wanting in the chain of evidence,” remarked Mr. Dinsmore,
as they finished with these words from the account of the martyrdom of
Stephen: “‘But he, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly
into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right
hand of God, and said, Behold, I see the heavens opened, and the Son
of man standing on the right hand of God,’――we have just read, ‘that
he died, was buried, rose from the grave, ascended into heaven and
there remains at God’s right hand.’”

“Where he ever liveth to make intercession for us,” added Rose softly,
a glad light in her sweet blue eyes.

Then Mildred read aloud from her open Bible, “‘seeing then that we
have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus, the
Son of God, let us hold fast our profession. For we have not an high
priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities;
but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.’”




CHAPTER XIII.

  “Wake, slumberer! morning’s golden hours
     Are speeding fast away;
   The sun has waked the opening flowers,
     To greet the new-born day.”
                                   ――EPES SARGENT.


Elsie stirred in her sleep, half dreamily conscious that it was near
her usual hour for rising; then some one bent over her and a kiss on
the lips awoke her fully.

“Papa!” she cried softly, looking up into his face with her now
wide-open beautiful eyes, then putting her arm round his neck she drew
him down closer and returned his caress, with a whispered
“Good-morning, my own dear papa.”

“Good-morning, my darling,” he said; “do you feel well and bright and
as if a gallop before breakfast with your father would be enjoyable?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed, papa!” she cried, starting up, with a face full
of delight.

“Well, then, get up at once; let Aunt Chloe dress you in your
riding-habit, and give you a glass of good rich milk, and we will go.
Annis seems to be still sleeping. Don’t make any noise to disturb her,
and after breakfast you and she can take a short drive in the
phaeton.”

“I wish mamma was going with us,” Elsie said, as her father assisted
her to mount her pony.

“It would be very pleasant to have her company,” he answered, “but she
prefers another nap, having lost sleep during the night by the babe’s
wakefulness.”

“Annis is getting another nap, too,” Elsie remarked. “I peeped in at
her just before I left my rooms.”

“Ah! then I hope she will not miss you.”

“Oh, let us have a brisk ride, won’t you, papa?” she asked as they
passed out of the grounds into the highway.

“I see no objection,” he returned, smiling indulgently upon her; and
away they flew.

Elsie had not been long gone when Annis awoke. She lay still for a
little thinking. She remembered that to-day she was to begin lessons
with her Cousin Horace, and the prospect was not altogether pleasant;
she feared he would think her a dull scholar and not so far advanced
in her studies as she ought to be.

Then it occurred to her that it was time to get up. The fire had been
attended to and the room was very pleasantly warm. She threw back the
covers and stepped out upon the thick soft carpet.

“Ah, is you gettin’ up, honey?” asked Aunt Chloe, peering in at the
half-open door. “Ise done dressin’ my chile, and now I kin help you ef
yous willin’.”

“Thank you, auntie, I’d be very glad to have you do up my hair and
hook my dress. But where is Elsie? It is so quiet in there that I
thought she was still asleep.”

“Yah, yah!” laughed the old nurse. “Miss Elsie, she’s done gone ridin’
wid Massa Horace.”

“Why, dear me! I must be shamefully late!” exclaimed Annis in dismay,
and beginning her toilet in great haste.

“No, missy, yous’ got plenty time, dey’s early; dat’s all.”

Much relieved by the assurance, Annis went on with her dressing rather
more leisurely.

She had finished, and was sitting in an easy chair beside the fire,
reading her Bible, when Elsie returned from her gallop, and came in
holding up the skirt of her habit with one hand and carrying in the
other a little gold-mounted riding-whip. She was radiant with health
and happiness, her eyes shining and a lovely color in her cheeks.

“Good morning, Annis dear,” she said, running to her cousin with an
offered kiss. “Please excuse me for leaving you, but you seemed to be
having a very nice nap, and papa wanted me to take a short ride with
him before breakfast.”

“I don’t see any call for excuse,” returned Annis, with perfect good
humor. “I’m glad you went; for I’m sure it has done you good,” she
added, gazing admiringly into the sweet, bright face. “How beautiful
you are, Elsie!”

“Ah, don’t flatter me and make me vain,” Elsie said with sudden
gravity. “But you are reading and I am interrupting you.”

“I can finish while you change your dress,” said Annis.

“And have my morning reading with papa,” added Elsie, hurrying into
her dressing-room. “Please, mammy, make me ready for breakfast as fast
as you can, or I shall not have much time with papa,” she said to Aunt
Chloe, who was there in waiting with a pretty morning dress and sash
laid out in readiness.

“Yes, honey darlin’, Ise hab you ready in less dan no time,” she
responded, beginning to remove the riding hat and habit as she spoke.

Her toilet complete, Elsie hastened, Bible in hand, to her father’s
study. She found him seated with his Bible open before him.

“I hope I have not kept you waiting long, papa,” she said, taking her
accustomed seat upon his knee.

“No, daughter, you have been very prompt,” he replied, tenderly
enfolding her with his arm. “Your ride has not wearied you?”

“Oh, no, sir. I am not tired at all.”

They read a few verses, talked together of the truth taught in them,
then knelt while Mr. Dinsmore offered a short prayer. After that she
resumed her seat upon his knee until the call to breakfast.

“You have not forgotten that lessons are to be begun again to-day?” he
said interrogatively, taking the small white hands in his and softly
patting and stroking them as he spoke.

“No, sir, and I intend to try to be very industrious, to make up for
lost time.”

“That is right, and I don’t expect to hear a word of grumbling over
the Latin lesson.”

“Papa,” she exclaimed energetically, “if you do I ought to be
punished!”

“In what way?” he asked with unmoved gravity, though there was a
twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“Ah, that of course would be for you to decide, papa,” she said,
giving him a hug and kiss.

“Well, I advise you not to give me the opportunity. Have you thought
what you would like to send as Christmas gifts to your cousins at
Pleasant Plains?”

“No, sir.”

“Better talk it over with mamma.”

“And you, papa. I do think you always know better how to please with
presents than anybody else.”

“Oh, my child,” he said, laughing, “if I swallowed all your loving
flattery, what a conceited creature I should become! Perhaps you can,
in talking with Mildred and Annis, get an idea of what would best
please the others. Ah! there is the call to breakfast;” and gently
putting her off his knee, he rose, took her hand in his, and led her
to the breakfast-room.

As soon as the meal and family worship were over, the little girls had
their drive. Annis enjoyed it exceedingly, and Elsie nearly as much.

By the time they had returned and taken off their wraps the hour for
study had arrived.

Elsie took out her books, showed Annis her lessons for the day, and
seating themselves side by side, they conned their tasks together.

They were about equally advanced in their studies and could work
together to advantage, as Mr. Dinsmore discovered on hearing the
recitations and examining Annis as to her acquirements.

“Papa,” said Elsie, “I think it very nice and enjoyable to have
company in studying and reciting, and I guess I shall learn all the
faster for it.”

“I hope so, daughter, but I do not like that use of the word guess――in
the sense of expect, think, suppose, presume, conjecture, believe.
Don’t use it in that way again.”

“I’m afraid she has learned it from me, Cousin Horace,” Annis said
ingenuously. “It’s a bad habit of mine that father and mother both
dislike. I have tried to break myself of it, and I mean to try harder
after this.”

“I’ll try to remember not to use it any more, papa,” said Elsie. “But
please tell me is it quite incorrect or only inelegant?”

“It is quite incorrect when one guesses about things well known; it is
only inelegant when used in the sense of conjecture, divine, surmise,
suppose, believe, think concerning something we do not know; any one
of these words seems to me preferable. The use of guess in those
senses is often spoken of as an Americanism, but unjustly, as it has
been so used by Milton, Locke, Shakespeare, and other prominent
English writers.”

“I am glad to know that,” said Annis. “Cousin Horace, I think I shall
like you as a tutor very much indeed.”

“You don’t guess so?” he returned with a smile. “Well, what do you say
to taking a riding lesson now?”

“Oh, that I should like it greatly; if it will not trouble you or take
too much of your time.”

“No; I can spare time for that, and also for a walk with my two
pupils,” he said, laying a hand caressingly on Elsie’s head as she
stood at his side. “How soon can you be ready?”

“Oh, directly, papa,” was Elsie’s answer. Annis’s, “In two minutes,
cousin,” and they ran gayly from the room.

“I haven’t seen Milly since breakfast!” exclaimed Annis, tripping
along by Mr. Dinsmore’s side. “I wonder if she went into the city to
shop?”

“No,” he answered, “she and my wife were returning their calls this
morning. I was invited to accompany them, and should have enjoyed
doing so had not business detained me at home.”

“O papa, what a pity!” said Elsie. “Couldn’t you have heard our
lessons this afternoon?”

“That would have been possible, but not best, I thought; beside, I had
other matters, connected with the work on the plantation, claiming my
attention. Is Mildred wanting to go to the city to shop, Annis?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the little girl, her whole face lighting up with
pleasure; “we are going to make up a Christmas box for the folks at
home, and Milly says it must start soon to get there in time; the
journey is so long, you know. We bought some things in Philadelphia,
but hadn’t time to buy all we wanted.”

“May I ask what sort of things they were?” he queried in a playful
tone.

“Oh, yes, indeed, Cousin Horace. We bought gloves, handkerchiefs,
ribbons and laces for mother and the girls, neckties and handkerchiefs
for the boys and father, and some beautiful coral and gold armlets for
little Stuart Ormsby――Zillah’s baby, you know――and some lovely fine
white material for dresses for him; and beautiful needlework to trim
them with.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Mr. Dinsmore said; “and I should be very
glad to learn of some other things you and Mildred think would please
them, for Elsie and I must beg leave to have a share in this pleasant
business. Must we not, daughter?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” she cried with enthusiasm; “it will be a very great
pleasure! I want to remember each one with some nice gift.”

“You are both very kind,” Annis answered with a pleased look. “We all
think at home there never were such kind relations as our Dinsmore
uncle and cousins.”

“My father is the soul of generosity,” Mr. Dinsmore remarked. “But
those to whom God has entrusted such abundant means as he has to Elsie
and myself, so that giving does not involve much, if any self-denial,
do not deserve any great amount of credit for it; especially when they
find it the most enjoyable way of using their money.”

Walk and riding lesson over, they returned to the house.

It was time to dress for dinner. That attended to, the little girls
sought the ladies in Mrs. Dinsmore’s boudoir, where they sat in dinner
dress but busied with their fancy work.

The gentlemen were there too, chatting with their wives and fondling
their baby boys.

The moment little Horace caught sight of his sister he held out his
arms to her with a crow of delight, for he was already very fond of
her.

Hastening to her father’s side, “O papa!” she said in her most coaxing
tones, “mayn’t I take him?”

“Sit down in that low chair, and I will put him on your lap,” he
answered.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said, gladly complying with the condition.

“Well, Annis,” said the doctor, “I hear you are in a fair way to
become an accomplished horsewoman.”

“In as fair a way as having the best of teachers can make me.”

“And a good little pony to learn on,” added Elsie.

“Yes, indeed,” assented Annis. “Mildred,” turning to her sister, “you
didn’t go shopping to-day?”

“No, we thought best to pay our calls first, and that took all the
morning. We hope, though, to shop to-morrow.”

“Cousin Horace, will you allow your pupils to have a share in the
shopping?” asked Annis half laughingly, turning to Mr. Dinsmore as she
spoke.

“If the lessons have first been recited correctly,” he replied.
“Mildred, will you allow me a share in that shopping?”

“Your company is always agreeable, Cousin Horace.”

“But he means more than that,” Annis said gleefully; “he and Elsie
want to buy things for our box too.”

“And so you told them about it? though I begged you not to do so,”
Mildred returned, reproachfully.

“You are not to blame her,” remarked Mr. Dinsmore, “it was no fault of
hers. I wormed it out of her. But I don’t see, Milly, why you should
wish to deprive us of the pleasure of taking part in such work?”

“Just because you and Elsie are both too generous, and must have
plenty of other uses for your money.”

“My dear little lady,” he answered smilingly, “are not we the best
judges of that?”

“Come, Milly, be generous and don’t try to keep your pleasure all to
yourself,” her husband said, standing by her side and looking down at
her with laughing, admiring eyes.

“I trust you don’t really think I need that admonition, my dear,” she
responded, lifting to his face eyes brimful of confiding affection.




CHAPTER XIV.

                             “Industry――
   To meditate, to plan, resolve, perform,
   Which in itself is good――as surely brings
   Reward of good, no matter what be done.”
                                      ――POLLOCK.


It was decided that the box for Pleasant Plains must start within a
week, so there was no time to be lost in getting it ready.

Shortly after leaving the tea-table the two little girls held a
whispered consultation, the result of which was that they stole
quietly away to Elsie’s boudoir and set to work with zeal and
determination upon the morrow’s lessons.

It was a lovely moonlight evening, and a carriage load of company, and
two or three gentlemen on horseback, arriving just as they left the
parlor, prevented them from being missed for a couple of hours.

Then the visitors having taken leave, the elder members of the family
began to wonder what had become of the children, and presently Mr.
Dinsmore went in search of them.

“Papa,” cried Elsie, looking up from her book as he entered the
boudoir, “we have learned our lessons for to-morrow. Won’t you hear
them now and let us go to the city in the morning with mamma and
Cousin Mildred?”

“I will hear the recitations, and if I find them satisfactory shall
certainly consider you deserving of the favor you ask,” he replied,
seating himself and taking the book she held out to him.

“You have both done extremely well, and if nothing happens to prevent
shall go to the city with the ladies to-morrow,” he said when the last
lesson had been recited.

Both the young faces were full of delight.

“Thank you, Cousin Horace,” said Annis.

“Thank you, my dear, kind father,” Elsie said, seating herself on his
knee and giving him a hug and kiss. “Annis says father always, and it
sounds so nice. May I say it too? I mean would you like me to, papa?”

“Address me by whichever title pleases you best, my darling; both are
very sweet to my ear coming from your lips,” he said, holding her
close. “But come now, we must return to our friends; it is time for
prayers.”

After prayers Annis followed Mildred to her rooms to tell how her
evening and Elsie’s had been spent and talk about the purchases to be
made on the morrow.

Mildred sympathized fully in her little sister’s pleasure, praised her
industry, and gave patient attention to the other matters, and advice
in regard to them.

“I don’t think we can quite decide what will be best for you to buy
till we see the pretty things in the stores,” she said at length. “And
now, dear child, I think it is about time for you to be getting ready
for bed.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. O Milly, I do love you so! you are just like a
mother to me, now while we are away from our own dear mother,” Annis
said, giving and receiving a close and tender embrace.

Dr. Landreth came in at that moment, and as the two released each
other, “Now, Annis,” he said, “isn’t it my turn? I’ve been your
brother for a good while and you have never given me a hug yet.”

“I never hug gentlemen, except my father and brothers,” she returned,
coloring and edging away from him.

“Of course not; but don’t you acknowledge me as your brother?”

“I think you are a very nice brother,” she said, remembering his many
acts of kindness, “but not――”

“Not the sort you like to hug, eh? Then you oughtn’t to hug Mildred;
because she and I are one.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, laughing and shaking her head, “and I
_have_ let you hug me once or twice.”

“Ah! but that’s another thing. See here, I’ll give you this if you’ll
pay for it with such a hug as you gave Milly just now.” And he held up
a double gold eagle.

Annis’s eyes sparkled. “That’s twenty dollars, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to have it, but if it’s to be a gift you can’t ask pay for
it.”

“True enough,” he said, tossing it up and catching it again. “Well,
how am I to contrive to get what I want?”

“If you really want it so much, Brother Charlie, you shall have it for
nothing, because I am ’most as fond of you as if you were my very own
brother,” she said, permitting him to catch her in his arms and
putting hers about his neck.

“That’s right,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks; “and now, as I’m
not to be outdone in generosity, you shall have the gold piece as a
free gift.”

He put it into her hand, and with a half breathless, “Oh, thank you. I
never was so rich before!” and a gay good-night to him and Mildred
too, she hurried away, eager to tell Elsie of her good fortune.

“It was worth twenty dollars just to see her delight,” he remarked, to
his wife; “don’t you think so, Milly?”

“Yes; how kind and generous you are, my dear husband.”

As the cousins left the parlor Elsie drew out her watch, glanced at
it, then gave her father a wistful, pleading look.

He smiled and held out his hand. “Yes, it is your bedtime I know; but
a little girl who has been so industrious all evening I think deserves
a little indulgence.”

She was on his knee and he fondling her before the sentence was
finished.

“And papa is very glad of a good excuse to indulge her and himself at
the same time,” Rose said, regarding the two with a look of mingled
amusement and satisfaction.

“Quite true, mamma,” Mr. Dinsmore returned, caressing Elsie again and
again; “but I hardly expected you to be so keen-eyed as to see through
my little subterfuge, so very small a one that in fact I was hardly
aware of it myself.”

“But what has Elsie been so busy about? if I may know.”

“Oh, yes, mamma; of course you may; I have only been learning and
reciting my lessons――Annis and I――so that we might go with you and
Cousin Mildred in the morning; and papa says we may if nothing happens
to prevent.”

“Such, for instance, as a disinclination for your company on the part
of your mother and cousin.”

“No danger of that impediment,” remarked Rose, with an affectionate
look at her little step-daughter, “I can answer for myself and Mildred
too, that we shall be glad to have them with us.”

“Thank you, dear mamma,” said Elsie. “Papa, how much may I spend on
the presents for the cousins?”

“A hundred dollars if you wish. What do you think of buying?”

“I don’t know, sir. Mamma, can you suggest something?”

“Laces, ribbons, gloves, handkerchiefs; a lady can hardly have too
many of any of those.”

“Or of books of the right sort,” added Mr. Dinsmore; “or of ornaments
for the hair and dress. A handsome party fan makes a nice present too.
But we need not decide fully until we see what the merchants have; it
is sufficient for the present to have an idea of what we want. And now
it is high time for my little daughter to go to bed. Good-night, my
darling.”

Aunt Chloe’s busy hands were preparing her nursling for bed, when
Annis came dancing in, holding up her double eagle.

“See, Elsie, what Brother Charlie has just given me! Wasn’t he kind?
and isn’t it pretty? I never before had a larger gold piece than a
quarter eagle. It’s so bright and new it seems too pretty to spend;
but I mean to spend it to-morrow, for it will buy ever so many nice
things for mother and the rest.”

“It’s a beauty!” Elsie said, taking it in her hand for a moment. “I
remember papa gave me one three years ago when I was starting off to
buy Christmas gifts, and I was so glad; for my purse wasn’t nearly so
full as I wished it was.”

“But this year you have a bank to fill it from,” laughed Annis. “O
Elsie, I do think that must be ever so nice!”

“But it doesn’t make much difference when you can’t get any out
without leave,” Elsie responded with a smile and a little shake of her
pretty head. “I hadn’t told papa I wanted more money that time and
didn’t expect it in the least, because he had given me fifty dollars
extra for Christmas just a few weeks before; but somehow papa always
seems to know what I want. And he is sure to give it to me if he
thinks it good for me to have it.”

“Yes, he’s a very nice father; and so is mine;” Annis said, “though he
can’t afford to give me so much money――partly, I guess, because he has
’most as many children as the old woman that lived in a shoe. O dear!
I forgot I wasn’t going to say guess any more, Elsie. I’m afraid I
shall spoil you entirely, and Cousin Horace will feel like sending me
home in disgrace, if he doesn’t actually do it.”

“No danger of that; I should be less surprised to hear him say he
feared I should spoil you. But he told me to go to bed, and if I’m not
there pretty soon he may say I shall not go to the city to-morrow. And
besides I don’t want to disobey my dear father, though he should not
so much as say I’m not pleased with you.”

“Then good-night, dear, I’ll run back to my room and get to bed too,
as fast as I can,” Annis returned, giving Elsie a kiss and hurrying
away.

The next day’s shopping was a decided success, and the two little
girls managed to get a great deal of enjoyment out of it. Mildred was
not far behind them in that, she had seldom set herself a sweeter task
than the selection and preparing of these gifts for the dear ones at
home. For some only the materials were bought, and then fashioned into
beautiful things by her own deft fingers; many a tender thought, many
a loving prayer, weaving itself in among the stitches.

Annis and Elsie also made some pretty things and had them ready in
season too, though Mr. Dinsmore would not allow any neglect of either
lessons or out-door exercise; and they as well as the ladies were
occasionally hindered by calls.

Elsie had a number of little girl friends in the families which kept
up a more or less intimate acquaintance at the Oaks and Roselands, who
when their mothers or older sisters came to call upon Mrs. Landreth
and Mrs. Dinsmore were allowed to come with them as callers upon Elsie
and Annis.

It was no unusual thing for Mr. Dinsmore to take Elsie with him when
making informal visits upon neighbors and friends, whether Rose
accompanied him or not; and he made no objection to her going with her
mamma and cousins to return these calls of her young friends; which
they did as soon as the all-important box had been dispatched.

He and Dr. Landreth were usually of the party also, and the hospitable
cordiality with which they were everywhere received made the little
visits a pleasure to all.

The visit to Ion was the most enjoyable of any, both Mrs. Travilla and
her son were so very kind and knew so well how to please and entertain
their guests, both older and younger; Mr. Travilla was fond of little
girls, and Elsie was a very great favorite with both his mother and
himself.

He had a good many pretty and interesting things to show to her and
Annis, as well as to the older people; paintings, engravings, flowers,
birds and other live pets, besides a cabinet of curiosities. Some of
these last were relics of the Revolutionary War, and each had a story
connected with it. He told one or two, but said there was not time now
for more, or to go into the details of any; that must all be deferred
for the longer visit he and his mother hoped soon to have from them.

“We should like,” he added, “to have you all here for a week or two,
or as much longer as you please; but if the older people cannot afford
us so much of their valuable time, we think we must at least have the
little girls. What do you say to it, Dinsmore?”

Elsie turned eagerly to hear her father’s reply. Annis listened
anxiously for it too, for both were greatly interested in everything
connected with the Revolution, and thought a week at Ion very
desirable.

Mr. Dinsmore looked at them with an indulgent smile. “I see they would
like to accept your kind invitation, Travilla,” he said, “as doubtless
we all should; yet while thanking you and Mrs. Travilla for it, I
think we must beg a little time to consider the matter. There must be
a visit to Roselands, some entertaining at the Oaks, too, and it will
not do to make pleasure the business of life, it cannot be all holiday
to any of us.”

“That is very true,” said Mrs. Travilla, “and these dear little girls
need to be garnering up knowledge now, in their youth, to make them
ready for the duties and responsibilities of later years. Still I
hope, Horace, you will find that you can spare them to us for at least
a few days. Their presence would brighten up the old place
delightfully.”

“You are very kind, my dear madam.”

“To myself, yes; Edward and I are very fond of children, and your
little daughter has always been an especial favorite with us both, as
I am sure you know. If you should ever want to get rid of her,” she
added playfully, “we will be ready at a moment’s notice to take her
off your hands.”

“Ah, yes, when?” he said, turning upon his child a look of unutterable
love, joy, and fatherly pride.




CHAPTER XV.

  “Sweet beauty sleeps upon thy brow,
     And floats before my eyes;
   As meek and pure as doves art thou,
     Or beings of the skies.”
                             ――ROBERT MORRIS.


“Elsie, don’t you want to spend that week at Ion? I think it would be
just lovely! I’d a great deal rather go there for a long visit than to
Roselands,” Annis said, taking off her hat and twirling it about in
her hands, though her thoughts were evidently not on it.

They had just driven home from Ion and were in Elsie’s dressing-room,
Aunt Chloe busy about the person of her nursling.

“Yes, I should like to go very much indeed!” was the quick, earnest
rejoinder.

“Then coax your father to let us.”

Elsie shook her head. “That would be the surest way to make him say
no. But you can go, Annis, if Cousin Mildred is willing, and I think
it likely she will be; don’t you?”

“As if I’d care the least bit to go without you!” Annis exclaimed half
indignantly. “But are you never allowed to coax?”

“No, not at all when papa is the person. He generally says yes or no
at once, and then that’s the end of it. Sometimes he says, ‘I will
consider the matter,’ or ‘I am not ready to decide that question yet,’
and then I must just wait patiently till his answer is ready. I think
mamma and Mr. Travilla can sometimes persuade him when they try, and I
do hope they will try. You know,” she added with a merry look, “he
wouldn’t be so rude to them as to refuse to listen to anything they
might want to say.”

“No; and I think he might be as polite to you.”

“Papa always is polite to me, I think,” Elsie answered gravely. “But
you know it’s his duty to train me up right, so he has to make rules
and see that I obey them.”

“Oh, yes! of course; and I ought not to find the least fault with him;
to you anyhow.”

“Dar, darlin’, Ise done wid fixin’ you,” remarked Aunt Chloe,
smoothing down the folds of Elsie’s dress. “Now, Miss Annis, what kin
I do fo’ you? I reckon de suppah bell ring fo’ long.”

Not long after supper Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie were left sole occupants
of the parlor. Dr. Landreth had gone to the library to do some
writing, being much occupied just now with the business which had
brought him South, the ladies were engaged with their babies, and
Annis had run after Mildred as she left the room.

Mr. Dinsmore was pacing thoughtfully to and fro, Elsie seated beside
the centre-table, turning over some new books, but now and then
stealing a furtive glance at her father, very much wishing he would
call her to him, broach the subject of the invitation to Ion, and say
that he intended to let her accept it.

Presently she caught his eye, and pausing at her side he laid his hand
caressingly on her head. “What is it?” he asked, smiling down into the
wistful, eager little face. “I see that my little girl has something
to say to me. Come, sit on my knee and tell me all that is in your
heart.”

He took her hand as he spoke, led her to an easy-chair, and seating
himself therein drew her to his knee.

“Now, my darling, say on.”

“Papa,” she said, putting an arm round his neck and gazing straight
into his eyes, with hers brimful of filial love to him and joy in his
love for her, “don’t you know all about it? you almost always know
what I’m thinking about and what I want.”

“Never mind how much I know. I choose to have you tell me,” he said,
softly touching his lips to the white forehead and the round rosy
cheek.

“Well then, father,” she answered, dwelling slightly, with an
indescribably sweet and tender intonation upon that last word, “it is
that Annis and I would like, oh, very much! to accept the invitation
to Ion, especially if you will go too. I’m not quite sure I do wish to
go without you.”

“Well, daughter, I think you know that I dearly love to gratify you?”

“Yes, papa, oh, yes, indeed! and I’ll try not to want to go if you
don’t think it best.”

“That is my own dear child,” he said, smiling fondly upon her. “I have
been thinking that you and Annis might enjoy having a little company
of your young friends here to spend a week or so of the holidays. What
do you say to that?”

“Papa! what a nice idea!” she cried, clapping her hands.

“Your mamma and I will probably have some older guests visiting us at
the same time. Mrs. and Mr. Travilla, I hope, among others. I trust
they will enjoy it, and feel content with a shorter visit from us than
they so kindly proposed, and that Annis and you will be satisfied
also.”

“I shall, papa, and I presume she will. But please tell me whom I may
invite.”

“You may first tell me whom you wish to ask. We will make out a list
together,” taking a note-book and pencil from his pocket. “We have
some weeks before us, but it may be as well to send out our
invitations at once, lest we should be forestalled by some one else.
Now then, what names have you to suggest?”

“Carrie Howard, Lucy Carrington, Isabel Carleton, Mary Leslie, Flora
Arnott, and――papa, am I to ask anybody from Roselands?”

“No; I shall attend to that. We are all to dine there day after
to-morrow, and I shall tell Enna she will be welcome to come, and stay
the week out, if she behaves nicely, but that I shall keep an eye on
her and send her home if she shows her usual ill-temper and
disposition to domineer. Your mamma and I will invite your grandpa and
his wife and your Aunt Adelaide. Louise and Lora will not, I presume,
care to come――your party being too young, and ours too old for them.”

“But Walter, papa?”

“Yes; Walter must be invited; Edward and Herbert Carrington also, and
a few other well-behaved boys of suitable age. They will entertain
each other and probably spend most of their time out of doors. These
will be enough for you to invite to spend the week. We may, perhaps,
have a larger party for Christmas Eve. You may if you wish.”

“Dear father, how very kind and indulgent you are to me!” she said
with loving gratitude. “I ought to be the best and most obedient of
children.”

“I think you are, my darling; and every day I thank God for giving me
so dear, so precious a treasure as my only daughter. Suppose we go now
to my study and write these invitations; if you are not too tired.”

“Oh, I’m not tired at all, papa; and I think it would be nice to have
it done; because Annis and I are going to be very busy making
Christmas things.”

“And learning lessons,” he added, as he rose and led her from the
room, “they must always be attended to first; you will no doubt find
it difficult at times to concentrate your thoughts upon them, but you
can do so if sufficiently determined, and I shall be strict in
requiring it; it will be good mental discipline for you.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded with a half sigh, as they entered the study
hand in hand.

“Ah!” he said playfully, bending down to look into her face, “papa
does not seem to you quite so indulgent as you thought him a little
while ago.”

“Yes, papa, in everything you think for my good; and indeed I do often
thank you in my heart for not indulging me in other things.”

“I don’t doubt it, my dear, submissive little daughter,” he said in
tenderest tones, imprinting a kiss on the sweet, ruby lips, as she
lifted her face to his.

“Now sit down here at your writing-desk and let me see if you know how
to word an invitation.”

“But I don’t, papa; so please dictate to me,” she said, opening her
desk, and taking out a quantity of delicately tinted and perfumed
note-paper and envelopes bearing her monogram.

“Very well.”

“But if you would write them for me, papa, that would be better still;
I’m afraid I don’t write well enough.”

“I think you write a very neat hand when you try,” he said, dipping
her pen into the ink and giving it to her.

“I shall try my very best now, papa,” she answered. “I’ll write Isabel
Carleton’s first, if you will please tell me how.”

Half an hour later she wiped and laid away the pen with a sigh of
relief, then glanced with complacency at the little pile of
dainty-looking notes on the table beside her desk.

“Thank you, papa, for your kind help,” she said, turning to him.

“You are entirely welcome, my darling,” he answered; “and I am well
pleased with your part of the work; the writing is very neat and
legible. I shall send a servant with them in the morning. Now let us
go back to the parlor, for your mamma and cousins are probably there
again. And I suppose you would like to tell Annis what you have been
doing.”

“Oh, yes, sir; and I think she’ll be pleased.”

They met Mrs. Dinsmore in the hall.

“Letters, Rose?” her husband said inquiringly as she came swiftly
toward him.

“Notes of invitation, I think,” she replied, pausing under the lamp to
look them over. “Yes, one for you and me,” handing it to him, “one for
Dr. and Mrs. Landreth, one for Annis, and one for Elsie.”

“For me, mamma!” cried the little girl, holding out an eager hand for
it. “And Annis’s, mamma, may I take it to her?”

“Yes,” Rose replied, giving her the two. “Do you know where she and
her sister are?”

“Probably in the parlor,” Mr. Dinsmore said, leading the way thither.

They found the doctor, Mildred, and Annis all there, and delivered
them their notes.

“Papa, may I read mine?” Elsie asked softly, standing close at his
side. “I haven’t opened it yet.”

“You may,” he answered, with an approving smile.

“From the Howards of Pinegrove,” remarked the doctor. “Well, we accept
I suppose, as a matter of course, as there seems to be nothing to
prevent.”

“Nothing for me, I believe,” Mildred said, “except that I don’t like
to leave my baby long enough to attend an evening party.”

“Nor I mine,” said Rose.

“Oh, we’ll make them an excuse for coming home early,” said the
doctor.

“Elsie, are you going?” Annis asked.

Elsie looked at her father with wistful, beseeching eyes.

“Cousin Horace, you will let her go, won’t you?” Annis urged in her
most persuasive tones.

“Are you very desirous to do so, daughter?” he asked, drawing Elsie to
him, smoothing back the hair from her forehead with caressing hand,
and gazing tenderly into the depths of the sweet, pleading eyes lifted
to his.

“Oh, yes, indeed! dear papa, if you are willing; and you know you will
be there too, to take care of me.”

“You are not very strong and I rather fear the late hours for you; but
if you can contrive to take a good long nap in the afternoon of that
day, I will let you go, should nothing happen to prevent.”

“Oh, thank you, papa!” she cried in a transport of joy, putting her
arms round his neck to hug and kiss him.

“Of course,” he said, looking at Mildred, “I am taking it for granted
that Annis is to go.”

“It would hardly do to separate such fast friends,” Mildred said,
smiling upon her little sister’s eager, entreating face, “and I am
sure I may safely let Annis go wherever Elsie goes with her father’s
approval.”

“And I never go anywhere without it, Cousin Milly, and never expect to
as long as I live,” Elsie said, with a sweet, happy little laugh, as
she gave her father another affectionate hug.

Then she whispered in his ear, “Wasn’t it odd that Carrie Howard
should invite me just when I was inviting her? May I tell Annis now?
May everybody hear what we’ve been doing?”

He nodded a smiling assent, and she immediately availed herself of the
permission.

The older people all entered into her pleasure, and Annis was greatly
pleased with her news.




CHAPTER XVI.

  “Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
   But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
   For the apparel oft proclaims the man.”
                                     ――SHAKESPEARE.


“Milly,” Annis said, following her sister, as usual, when she retired
for the night to her own apartments, “what shall I wear to the party?
Have I anything suitable?”

“I’m afraid not, dear; but you shall have a new dress and as pretty a
one as can be found. We have ten days for the buying and making.”

“But there won’t be time to ask father or mother if I may have it.”

“And no need,” Mildred said gayly. “I am rich now, you know, and it
will be a dear delight to me to deck my little pet sister for the
party.”

“Oh, thank you! Milly, you’re just the best and kindest sister in the
world!” exclaimed the little girl, dancing about in delight, then
stopping short to throw her arms about Mildred and give her a vigorous
hug and kiss.

Mildred returned the embrace, saying with a quiet smile, “You forget
that I am pleasing myself. And don’t you think Zillah, Ada, or Fan
would do as much for you under the same circumstances?”

“Yes; and I think I should for them. I think we all love one another
very much; and ah, but I do want to hear how they like their
presents!”

“They won’t get them for some weeks yet, you must remember, and then
their letters of acknowledgment will take some time to reach us.”

“Milly, what sort of dress shall it be?” Annis asked, going back to
the original topic of discourse.

“Something white I think; but we can decide better upon the material
when we see what they have in the stores.”

“I hope Elsie will wear white too. I think it will be prettier for us
both.”

“I dare say she will; her father likes to see her in white, and of
course he will say what she is to wear.”

“Yes; and she has so many lovely white dresses. I’m sure she’ll grow
too large for them before they’re half worn out.”

“Yes, no doubt,” Mildred said with a slight smile. “But now, dear,
isn’t it time to say good-night?”

“Yes, when I’ve had a peep at darling wee Percy,” Annis returned,
stealing softly to the side of the crib and bending over the little
sleeper with a face all aglow with loving admiration. “O Milly, he’s
_so_ sweet and pretty!” she whispered, turning to the young mother who
stood close at her side. “I’d like so much to kiss him, but I won’t,
for fear of waking him――the precious pet.”

On going down Annis found Elsie in her dressing-room being made ready
for bed. “May I stay and talk a little?” she asked.

“Yes; while mammy is undressing me,” Elsie said. “I do want to have a
long talk, but papa’s orders are to get to bed and to sleep as fast as
I can, and leave the talking for to-morrow.”

“Then we must, of course; but I want to tell you that Milly is going
to get me a new dress for the party――a white one she thinks. Isn’t she
good? And won’t you wear white too?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it yet, and papa hasn’t said
anything either.”

“Well, you have such quantities of beautiful dresses that you don’t
need to think till you’re just going to put it on.”

“I don’t need to think at all,” Elsie returned, with a happy little
laugh. “I have only to ask papa what he will choose to have me wear;
and sometimes he saves me even that trouble by telling me unasked.”

“I don’t know whether I’d quite prefer that or not,” Annis said; “but
good-night, I’ll go now, for I see you are ready for bed.”

Annis fell asleep that night and woke again next morning full of
pleasing anticipations of the coming festivities; but wisely
determined to give her whole mind to her lessons until after
recitation.

Her toilet was almost finished when Elsie came in, her eyes shining
and her face full of some pleasurable excitement. She had been up for
more than an hour, had had her morning Bible reading with her father
and a little chat afterward.

“Good-morning, Annis,” she said. “Oh, make haste and come with me.
I’ve something to show you!”

“Have you? Well I’m ready now.”

Elsie led the way to a part of the house Annis had never seen,
bringing her at length into a large room where two mulatto women were
busily at work, one sewing by hand, the other on a machine. Both faces
brightened noticeably at sight of their little mistress.

“Good-morning, Aunt Kitty,” she said in her sweet, gentle tones,
addressing the older woman, who hastily laid down her sewing to hand a
chair for each little lady. “I’ve brought my cousin to see you and
some of the pretty things kept here.”

“Is you, honey? Well, you knows Ise always pow’ful glad to see yo’
lubly face in hyar. An’ what’s yo’ cousin’s name, Miss Elsie?”

“Annis Keith, Aunt Kitty. Rachel,” turning to the younger servant,
“how are you to-day? is that bad cold quite gone?”

“Yes, tank you, Miss Elsie; an’ Ise pretty well exceptin’ a misery in
de back.”

“I think mamma would say you shouldn’t work on the machine to-day if
your back hurts you,” remarked Elsie, with a compassionate look.

“Oh la, chile, ’tain’t nothin’!” exclaimed Aunt Kitty, with a
contemptuous sniff directed at her companion. “Rachel she’s always
’plainin’ ob a misery somewheres, and de mo’ you nuss her up and let
her off from work, de wuss it grows. She better work away and forgit
it. Dat’s how dis chile does.”

Elsie seemed too eager about something else to pay attention to the
remark. She had taken a key from her pocket, and unlocking a large
wardrobe on the farther side of the room, “Annis,” she said, “won’t
you come here for a moment?”

Annis was beside her instantly.

“Don’t you think this is pretty?” Elsie asked, showing her some
beautifully fine India mull.

“Oh, lovely!” Annis exclaimed. “Are you going to have a dress made of
that?”

“Yes; to wear to Carrie’s party, and I want you to have one, so that
we will be dressed alike. Papa bought it some time ago, a whole piece,
I think he said, and I shall take it as a great favor,” she added in
an undertone and with a very winning, persuasive look into Annis’s
eyes, “if you will accept a dress of it as a present from me.”

“Thank you ever so much, but――I’m afraid I oughtn’t to,” Annis said,
hesitating, blushing, and looking half pleased, half as if the offer
were slightly wounding to her pride of independence.

“Why not?” Elsie asked entreatingly. “Papa wants you to――it was he who
thought of it first――and I shall be so sorry if you refuse. I’ve quite
set my heart on having our dresses exactly alike, just as if you were
my sister. You know I’ve never had a sister, and I’ve always wanted
one so much.”

“You are just as kind as you can be, Elsie,” Annis returned, putting
her arms round her cousin and kissing her affectionately, “but I don’t
think Mildred would want me to take it. Anyhow I must ask her first.
Couldn’t she buy me one just like it in the city?”

“I don’t know; mamma and papa both said when he bought this, that it
was an uncommonly beautiful piece.”

“Oh, it is beautiful! Elsie, so beautiful that I don’t like to have
you give it to me――it must have cost so much!”

“That makes it all the more suitable for you, dear Annis. And it is
not at all generous in me to offer it, because it does not cost me the
least self-denial to part with it. Won’t you take it?”

Annis hesitated for a moment, then said with frank cordiality, “Yes, I
will, if Milly doesn’t object. You know she’s in mother’s place to me
while I am here.”

“Thank you!” Elsie said delightedly. “I do so want you to have it. Let
us run and ask Cousin Mildred now. No; on second thoughts I do believe
it will be best to consult papa first. He always knows just what it
is best to do. But wait, I want to show you the trimming for our
dresses; they must be trimmed alike too, papa says.”

She lifted the lid of a box and drew out the end of a piece of lace so
fine, soft, rich, and beautiful in design that even Annis, though not
a connoisseur in the article, could not fail to perceive that it must
be very costly.

She exclaimed at its beauty, adding, “You could never think of giving
any of that away, Elsie! Cousin Horace could not have meant that you
should!”

“But indeed he did,” Elsie answered gayly. “He doesn’t consider
anything too good for you; nor do I either. But there’s the breakfast
bell, and we must hurry down.”

They found Mr. Dinsmore alone in the breakfast-room. He greeted them
with a smile, and taking Annis’s hand gave her a good-morning kiss.

“Now it’s my turn, papa,” Elsie said in a merry tone, holding up her
face so bright, loving, and winsome that it would have taken a very
cold and unresponsive nature to refuse her invitation.

Her father did not, though he said laughingly as he bestowed the
caress, “As if you had not had half a dozen more or less already this
morning! Well, what success?” with a kindly glance at Annis.

“Oh, I had to coax her, papa, but she will if Cousin Milly will.”

“Ah, is that it? Well, leave Mildred to me.”

“No, sir,” exclaimed Dr. Landreth’s voice in his rear, “it can’t be
done! Mildred belongs to me.”

“Ah, good-morning to you both!” said Mr. Dinsmore, turning at the
sound to find the doctor and his wife both there. “I’ve no idea of
interfering with your claims, sir; one wife’s enough for me to
manage,” with a merry glance at Rose, who entered at that moment by
another door.

“A trifle too much sometimes if the truth were told; isn’t she?” Rose
retorted as she took her place at the head of the table, the others
seating themselves at the same time.

“My dear, you should never tell tales out of school,” said Mr.
Dinsmore.

There was a general laugh, then a moment’s pause for all to recover
their gravity, and he asked a blessing on the food.

At the first opportunity Mildred remarked, “You have roused my
curiosity, Cousin Horace, and I think are bound to gratify it. In
regard to what am I to be left to you?”

“Didn’t I put my veto on that?” queried her husband.

“Yes, and yet I venture to assert that you are every whit as curious
as I to know what it all meant. Cousin Horace, you are called upon to
explain.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

“Gladly, if it is in my power.”

“There, children, you see it’s all settled with a word.”

“What’s settled?” asked Mildred.

“That Annis shall have, or rather already has, your consent to her
acceptance of a little present from Elsie. I shall explain further
anon.”

After breakfast and prayers, Mildred was taken to the sewing-room and
shown the intended gift, while the desired explanation was made.

She was not so proud in her wealth as she had been in her poverty, and
gracefully accepted for Annis, though she perceived that the present
was by no means the trifle Mr. Dinsmore had represented it.

“I had intended to give Annis her dress,” she said, “but I doubt if I
could find anywhere such exquisitely fine mull or lace so beautiful
and costly as this, and I think it will be very nice to have the
dresses alike. This lace is superb!” examining it more closely. “You
are making Annis a most generous gift, Cousin Horace,” she added,
looking up with cordial affection into his handsome, kindly face, as
he stood by her side, “and I thank you and dear Elsie, a thousand
times.”

“Not at all; I feel myself the obliged party,” he returned, “and I
want you to do us the further favor of allowing Annis’s dress to be
made up here. Aunt Kitty and Rachel are accomplished seamstresses and
dressmakers, and will be well pleased to have the job.”

“Dat we will, Massa,” responded Aunt Kitty, as he turned to her as if
for confirmation of what he had said, “an’ I spects we kin do de work
up ’bout right.”

This offer also Mildred accepted with thanks, remarking gayly, “You
never do anything by halves, Cousin Horace.”

The little girls, greatly pleased at the result of the conference, ran
off in high glee to take their accustomed out-door exercise, then
settled themselves to their lessons with a determined will to think of
nothing else until they were learned.

So fully occupied were they with the business in hand that they were
not aware of the departure of their elders on a shopping expedition to
the city. When they felt themselves fully prepared with their tasks
they put aside their books, rather wondering that Mr. Dinsmore was so
much later than usual in coming to hear their recitations. But they
practised some duets they were learning together on the piano, and the
time did not seem long till the carriage drove up and their four
elders walked in upon them looking as if they brought a pleasant
surprise, as indeed they did. Mr. Dinsmore and Rose each put a small
paper parcel into Elsie’s hand, Dr. Landreth and Mildred doing the
same by Annis.

With eager fingers the children made haste to undo the packages and
bring their contents to light, the givers looking on with faces full
of pleased anticipation.

Elsie’s presents proved to be two very elegant sashes――a pale blue and
a rich cream-white. Mildred’s present to Annis was the same, two
sashes exactly matching her cousin’s, the doctor’s a jewel-box, which
being opened showed a dainty lining of pale blue satin, on which
reposed an exquisitely beautiful necklace and bracelets of pearls
scarcely inferior in size and value to those belonging to Elsie, which
Annis had so often admired, never dreaming that such would ever fall
to her lot.

She went into a transport of delight and hugged and kissed, not
Mildred only, but her new brother to his heart’s content.

Elsie fully sympathized in Annis’s pleasure, was quietly happy in her
own gifts, and grateful to her kind parents.




CHAPTER XVII.

  “Patience, my lord! why, ’tis the soul of peace;
   Of all the virtues ’tis the nearest kin to heaven.”
                                                 ――DECKER.


When alone with Annis that evening Mildred said to her, “I had a talk
with Uncle Dinsmore to-day. You know we are all engaged to dine at
Roselands to-morrow, and he wants us――that is, my husband, you, and
me――to go prepared to stay at least a week.”

“O Milly, I don’t want to!” cried Annis. “Do you think I must? I wish
we didn’t have to go at all.”

“It is pleasanter here, especially so to you, I suppose, but consider,
dear, how very kind Uncle Dinsmore has always been to us, and how rude
and ungrateful it would seem to decline his invitation.”

“I’m willing to go for to-morrow, but what is to be done about my
lessons if I stay a whole week?”

“I spoke of that, and uncle said you should be brought over every day
for the lesson hours and taken back again. Won’t that do, little
lady?” Mildred asked, with playfully affectionate look and tone.

“Yes,” Annis said, her face brightening a little. “I don’t want to be,
or to seem ungrateful to anybody, and I think I can stand it in that
way for a week. And I’ll try to like the cousins there, though I’m
sure they’re not half so nice as these here.”

“No,” assented Mildred, “but you might travel the world over without
finding another such little girl as Elsie.”

“Yes, indeed, sister! I grow fonder of her every day, she’s so sweet
and bright, often merry and full of innocent fun, without a particle
of rudeness, so gentle and humble and unselfish. She doesn’t think
herself good at all, but I think she’s as nearly perfect as anybody
can be in this world.”

“And I quite agree with you,” said Mildred. “No wonder her father
doats on her as he does.”

“And she on him; but the way Enna sometimes treats her makes me angry.
I can hardly help telling Miss Enna she ought to be ashamed of
herself, and could almost scold Elsie for being so meek and patient.”

“Meekness and patience are very good things, little sister,” Mildred
said, with a slight smile; “I often wish I had more of them.”

“You needn’t then, you have quite enough, I think,” returned Annis.

“The Bible bids us ‘let patience have her perfect work,’ and it is
certainly a lack of the spirit of forgiveness that makes us irritable
and impatient under little annoyances, slights, and rudenesses,”
remarked Mildred; and opening her Bible at the seventh chapter of
Ecclesiastes, she read aloud, “And the patient in spirit is better
than the proud in spirit.”

“But, Milly, do you think it means we ought to put up with everything
and just let people trample on us?”

“No, I agree with Edmund Burke that ‘there is a limit at which
forbearance ceases to be a virtue.’ See here, Solomon says, ‘surely
oppression maketh a wise man mad.’ And,” turning to the New Testament,
“here in Acts we read that when the keeper of the prison said to Paul,
‘The magistrates have sent to let you go, now therefore depart and go
in peace,’ Paul’s answer was, ‘They have beaten us openly uncondemned,
being Romans, and have cast us into prison, and now do they thrust us
out privily? nay verily, but let them come themselves and fetch us
out.’”

“Yes,” said Annis meditatively, and as if thinking aloud, “I’ve an
idea he wouldn’t have put up with as much as Elsie does from Enna.”

“What is it Enna does that seems to you so unendurable?” asked
Mildred, with some curiosity.

“Oh, it isn’t so much what she does, or even says, as it is her
sneering, contemptuous tone and manner, as if Elsie were ever so much
younger and sillier than herself, when she is really older and a great
deal wiser. I spoke to Elsie about it one day, and she said she was
very glad Enna didn’t go any farther; because her papa had ordered her
to tell him if Enna abused her, and of course she must obey, and she
did dislike so very much to do it.”

Elsie seldom found much enjoyment in a visit to Roselands. Her Aunt
Adelaide was the only member of the family there between whom and
herself there was a strong mutual attachment, though Lora and Walter
were not unkind, and sometimes treated her even quite affectionately.

She and Annis were not in haste to be off from the Oaks on the day of
the dinner party, so did not ask to be excused from lessons in order
to accompany Rose and Mildred in the family carriage; they had their
morning walk together, Annis took her riding lesson, then the usual
time was spent in study and recitation.

After that they made their dinner toilets, and Elsie drove Annis over
in her own little phaeton, her father riding by its side all the way
to Roselands.

It was not strictly a family party; there were several gentlemen
guests beside Mr. Dinsmore and Dr. Landreth; among whom the children
were glad to see Mr. Travilla. His mother was there also, and not too
busy talking to the grown-up people to find time for a little chat
with her two young favorites.

They had each brought a bit of fancy work, and until dinner was
announced sat in the drawing-room, busy and demurely quiet, listening
with interest to the talk that was going on around them, but taking no
part in it unless a question or remark were addressed particularly to
them.

The moment Walter and Enna caught sight of the phaeton driving up the
avenue, they ran out to the veranda, and hardly waiting to greet their
brother and the little girls, asked eagerly to be allowed to take a
drive in it.

“It belongs to Elsie,” Mr. Dinsmore answered.

“Papa,” she said in an undertone, as he helped her out, “I am willing
if you are. But please tell them they are not to ill-use the ponies in
any way.”

“I shall ride alongside and see that they do not,” he said. “You and
Annis go in and say that I will be here in season for dinner.”

“Say, Horace; say, can I drive?” Walter was repeating impatiently.

“Yes, Elsie says you may.”

“Then I’m going too,” cried Enna, stepping in.

“No, En, you can’t go bareheaded and with nothing round you; and
there’s not time to wait for you to fix; and I’ll not have you,
because you’ll do nothing but scold and quarrel all the way.”

“No, she won’t, for I shall be close at hand to keep her in order,”
said Mr. Dinsmore, remounting his horse.

“And here comes Fanny with a hood and shawl for me,” said Enna, as a
servant-maid came hurrying out with the articles mentioned.

Walter, like the gentlemanly little fellow he was when not provoked
beyond endurance by Enna’s temper and wilfulness, helped the girl to
wrap the shawl about his sister’s shoulders, the hood was tied on, and
they were off; down the avenue and out into the road they went, the
ponies at a brisk trot, Mr. Dinsmore’s horse side-by-side with the
phaeton.

“What a splendid little turnout it is!” exclaimed Walter. “Wish I had
one like it.”

“You have a good pony,” said his brother, “and I should think would,
at least as a general thing, prefer riding to driving.”

“Horace, mayn’t I drive?” asked Enna in a whining tone.

“Perhaps Walter will resign the reins to you a part of the way,” Mr.
Dinsmore answered, “but we have not time to go very far.”

“You may drive to the end of the next field,” Walter said, giving her
the reins.

“Such a little bit of a way!” she grumbled, and would certainly have
held on to them when the designated spot was reached if Mr. Dinsmore
had not been so close at hand.

He seemed in a most amiable mood, conversing with the two children in
an affable and entertaining manner; but Enna knew he could be very
stern and authoritative on occasion. So a pout was the only evidence
of displeasure she ventured upon when Walter resumed the reins.

But no notice was taken of it by either brother, and presently Mr.
Dinsmore began talking of the expected festivities at the Oaks, and
gave them their invitation, adding, “You, Enna, will be very welcome
to come and stay the whole week if you can enjoy yourself and let
others do the same.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked, snappishly.

“That you must be pleasant-tempered; not domineering over your little
mates, but willing to yield your wishes to theirs to a reasonable
extent; in a word, be polite and unselfish.”

“I shan’t go!”

“Very well; please yourself in that.”

“I’ll go, Horace, thank you,” Walter said. “I wouldn’t miss it for a
good deal.”

“I say it’s too bad,” Enna burst out, “that people are always calling
me selfish and ill-natured and domineering. I should think I’ve as
good a right to have my way as anybody else.”

“Not all the time,” returned Mr. Dinsmore. “And hardly at all when you
are a minority of one against a majority of half a dozen or more. But
I certainly did not say you were selfish and domineering.”

On their return they found themselves barely in time for dinner. The
party not being very large, the children were allowed to dine with the
older people, and Elsie, to her no small content, was seated between
her father and Mr. Travilla, Annis being on the latter gentleman’s
other side.

Both little girls were well waited upon and were quietly happy and
contented, saying next to nothing themselves, but enjoying the
conversation of their elders.

Walter, seated on the opposite side of the table, seemed in excellent
spirits.

“That’s a splendid little turnout of yours,” he said, looking across
at Elsie. “I tell you I enjoyed the drive, only it wasn’t half long
enough. But you’ll lend it to me again, won’t you?”

She smiled and nodded assent.

“I’m going to the Oaks to spend Christmas week, but Enna says she
isn’t,” he went on in a lowered voice, glancing in Enna’s direction.

Elsie’s eyes followed his, and she saw that Enna’s face was clouded
and angry. She was sorry, but made no remark about it.

After dinner Lora invited Elsie and Annis to her room to show them
some pretty things she was making as Christmas gifts for her father
and mother, and to talk about what she should wear to the party at
Pine Grove. She was quite surprised to hear that they were both
invited, still more that Elsie’s father had consented to let her go.
Then she wanted to know just how they were to be dressed.

Enna came in while they were on that subject, and exclaimed angrily
that it was too bad they should be invited and she not.

“You are too young,” said Lora, “and besides always contrive to make
yourself disagreeable wherever you go.”

Lora’s words were by no means as oil upon the troubled waters. Enna
flew into a violent passion and abused her sister and niece in turn.
Lora was “a mean, spiteful, hateful thing; Elsie not a bit better.”

“Why, Enna, what have I done?” Elsie asked in surprise, but with a
gentle patience and forbearance that ought to have disarmed her
accuser.

“You’ve done a great deal,” stormed Enna; “I believe you’re always
running to Horace with tales about me. And you’ve gone and got ahead
of me by inviting all the girls to the Oaks for Christmas, so that I
can’t have any of them here.”

“Now, Enna,” expostulated Lora, “there’s no use in talking so. You
know mamma has said she wouldn’t be bothered with a houseful of
company this Christmas, and we younger ones are all going away to
spend the holidays.”

“No, I’m not,” interrupted the irate Enna. “I’d rather a thousand
times stay at home than go to the old Oaks, to have Horace lecturing
and reproving, and Elsie running to him all the time with tales about
me.”

“O Enna!” Elsie exclaimed, blushing painfully. “I never tell anything
about you unless papa orders me, and then you know I can’t help it.”

“You could if you chose. I’d never tell tales for being ordered!”
returned Enna, with scornful look and tone.

“No,” remarked Lora, coolly, “but you are ready enough to do it
without. And you needn’t say another word about Elsie getting ahead of
you in sending out invitations, for you never thought of doing so till
you heard that she had; and besides, you are so unpopular with your
mates that they would find some excuse for not coming, if you did
invite them.”

Elsie was not sorry that at that moment a summons came for her from
her father.

She obeyed at once, Annis and Lora accompanying her to the
drawing-room, where they found she was wanted to play and sing; some
of the stranger guests having expressed a desire to hear her.

It was always a trial to her to play before strangers, but she sat
down to the piano, in obedience to her father’s direction, without
hesitation or excuse, and acquitted herself to his entire satisfaction
and apparently to that of all the guests.

She did not leave the drawing-room again, or have any more talk with
Enna, until it was time to prepare for the ride home.

It seemed lonely to go back without the cousins, and especially to
leave Annis behind. But as compensation she had her father and mother
all to herself for the whole evening, and was allowed to sit longer
than usual in her favorite seat upon his knee.

Annis was there again the next morning in good season to prepare her
lessons for the day, and the two met as joyfully as if the separation
had been for weeks.

After their recitations Annis had to have her new dress fitted, then
to take her riding lesson, before returning to Roselands.

Elsie saw her off, then went to her papa’s study, where he was busily
writing. She knew she was welcome there if she did nothing to disturb
him, so took a book and seated herself on the farther side of the
room.

Mr. Dinsmore was still at his writing-desk when a servant came in with
a visiting-card which he handed to his master, saying he had shown the
gentleman into the parlor.

“It is a business call,” Mr. Dinsmore said, glancing at the card.
“Just show him in here, John.”

Elsie had become so deeply interested in her book that she heard
nothing of this, nor was she aware of the entrance of the caller, who
was courteously received by Mr. Dinsmore and invited to take a chair
which John set for him near to that of his master.

The two then fell into earnest talk, and presently something said by
the stranger catching Elsie’s ear, withdrew her attention from the
book and fixed it upon him and the subject of his discourse.

He was pleading the cause of Home Missions, telling of the needs, the
labors, trials, and privations of those who were carrying the gospel
to the destitute regions of our own land, especially the far West and
Northwest. Money was needed for the support of the laborers now in the
field, and for others ready to go as soon as the necessary means
should be provided.

Elsie laid aside her book and softly drew near her father’s chair. He
had forgotten her presence and did not notice her approach, for he too
was deeply interested in what the stranger was saying; and when he
seemed to have concluded, responded at once with a liberal
contribution to the cause.

As he handed the gentleman his check, a little voice at his side said
softly, “Papa, may I give something too?”

“Ah, daughter, is it you? I had forgotten that you were here,” he
said, turning to her with a pleased smile. “Yes, you may if you wish,”
and he laid a blank check before her and put a pen in her hand.

“How much, papa?”

“I shall leave that to your decision.”

She considered a moment, filled up the check, signed, and gave it to
him. It was drawn for five hundred dollars.

Her look as her eyes met his was a little doubtful and timid. But he
said, “Very well,” smiling upon her and stroking her hair caressingly
as he spoke. Then turning to the stranger he introduced her. “This,
sir, is my little daughter, and she wishes to make a contribution of
her own to this good cause.”

The gentleman shook hands with her, regarding the sweet child face
with evident admiration and saying a few pleasant words, then glancing
at the check she had given him, uttered an exclamation of gratified
surprise.

“She is well able to give it and has my full consent,” Mr. Dinsmore
remarked in explanation, as the gentleman turned upon him an
inquiring, half-hesitating look; then as he rose to go, he hospitably
urged him to stay for dinner, and until the next day if he could.

He accepted the invitation to dine, thus giving them the opportunity
to learn still more of the cause he represented, but took leave very
soon after the conclusion of the meal.




CHAPTER XVIII.

  “Humility, that low, sweet root,
   From which all heavenly virtues shoot.”
                                        ――MOORE.


The week of their partial separation passed more rapidly than Elsie
and Annis had thought possible, yet they were very glad when it was
over and they were again almost constantly together.

When lessons were done on the morning that Annis came back to stay,
Elsie carried her off to the sewing-room, saying their party dresses
were finished and Aunt Kitty wanted to see them tried on to make sure
that no alteration was needed.

Both were found to fit perfectly, they were very neatly made and very
beautiful and becoming.

“Oh, aren’t they just too lovely for anything!” cried Annis, gazing at
Elsie, then turning to survey her own graceful little figure in the
glass.

“You look so sweet in yours, Annis,” Elsie said, her eyes full of
genuine, loving admiration as they went from the dress up to the
bright, happy face of the wearer. “Let us run and show ourselves to
mamma and Cousin Mildred. I think they are in mamma’s boudoir.”

The ladies were found, and their verdict was entirely satisfactory;
they could see no room for improvement in the dresses.

“Or the faces either,” Rose said in a whispered aside to Mildred.

“Both are very sweet and winsome, but Elsie’s far the more beautiful
of the two,” Mildred returned, in the same low tone, but with a loving
look at her little pet sister.

Then the gentlemen came in, and they two admired and commended.

“Now, little girls,” Mr. Dinsmore said, “your ponies and my horse are
standing ready saddled and bridled at the door, and if you will
exchange this finery for your riding-habits, we will take a gallop.
Annis is equal to that now, I think.”

“Oh, thank you! Cousin Horace,” she exclaimed in delight. Then to
Elsie, as they ran gayly to do his bidding, “We’ll doff our finery
willingly enough for that, won’t we?”

“Yes, indeed! I’m so glad you enjoy riding, Annis. I always did;
especially with papa for my escort.”

They had their ride, enjoyed it greatly too; then an hour for
needle-work or anything they chose to do, before dinner.

In the afternoon they were starting out for a walk together about the
grounds. Annis, who was a little in advance of Elsie, called back to
her from the veranda. “The sun has gone under a cloud; do you think
there’s any danger of rain before we get back?”

“I guess not,” Elsie answered.

Her papa’s study-door was ajar and she quite near it as she spoke.

“Elsie!” came in grave, reproving tones from within.

“Sir!” and she hastened to him.

He was writing and for a moment seemed oblivious of her presence.

“I am here, papa,” she said softly as he paused to dip his pen in the
ink.

“I am not pleased with you,” he remarked, without looking at her.

“O papa! why?” The sweet voice was tremulous with pain and surprise.

“I cannot be pleased with you when you are not careful to obey me.”

“Papa, I have intended to be so; I――I don’t know what I have done
that――that you bade me not.”

“Think a moment. What was it you said as you passed the door just
now?”

“Only three words, papa, in answer to Annis, ‘I guess not.’”

“Ah! and what did I say to you the other day about using guess in that
way?”

“You forbade me,” she faltered, her eyes filling with tears. “O papa,
please forgive me this once! I’ll try never to forget again. I’m
sorry, very sorry, dear papa.”

He laid down his pen, turned toward her and held out his arms.

She sprang into them, put hers about his neck, and laid her cheek to
his.

“This once,” he said, caressing her softly, “but my little girl must
be careful not to forget again.”

“You’d have to punish me another time?”

“Yes.”

“I――I think――”

“Well?”

“I’m afraid I ought to be punished this time to help me to remember.
But oh, please don’t say I can’t go to the party!”

“No, I shall not do that, it shall be free forgiveness this time. I
think you are sorry enough to remember in future. Doubtless you think
your papa is very strict and particular about your mode of expressing
yourself, but some day you will thank me for it. Now go for your walk;
we have kept Annis waiting quite long enough.”

“Thank you, dear papa,” she said, holding up her face for another
kiss, “I think you are very, very kind!”

“Why, what kept you so long?” asked Annis, as Elsie joined her on the
veranda. “I thought you were all ready and right behind me.”

“Papa called me into his study; he had something to say to me,” Elsie
answered, with a blush, and turning away her face that Annis might not
see it and the tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,
cousin,” she added in her own sweet, gentle tones.

“Never mind; it doesn’t signify, and I didn’t mean to complain,” Annis
said with cheerful good humor. “Oh, there’s Mr. Travilla!” as a
horseman was seen coming up the drive. “Let’s wait and speak to him.”

They stood still looking toward him, and in a moment he had dismounted
close beside them, and was shaking hands and asking if they and all
the family were well.

“I’ll put yo’ hoss in de stable, Massa Travilla,” said a servant,
coming up and taking the bridle from his hand.

“Yes, if you please, Dick. I may perhaps stay some little time.”

“Oh, yes, sir, you must stay to tea!” Elsie said. “You have not been
here for several days, and we cannot let you leave us after a call
only.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he returned, with a pleased look. “You are
setting out for a walk? I wish you would invite me to go with you.”

“Oh, we should be glad, very glad to have you!” both answered, in a
breath.

So he went with them and made himself very entertaining, telling them
several amusing anecdotes, and giving them various items of useful
information.

When they returned to the house Mr. Dinsmore met them on the veranda,
shook hands with his friend, and stood talking with him for several
minutes.

While her father was thus engaged Elsie drew quietly near his side,
and taking unobserved possession of his hand carried it to her lips.

He paused an instant in his talk, bent down and kissed her, looking
with tender, loving eyes into hers, that were half filled with
repentant tears. “My darling!” he said softly, then straightening
himself went on with what he had been saying, but kept her hand in a
close, loving clasp.

“You will, of course, stay and take supper with us, Travilla?” he
said, leading the way into the house, still with Elsie’s hand in his.

“And oh, Mr. Travilla!” exclaimed Annis, “don’t you want to see our
party dresses? They’re finished, and are just the loveliest things
that ever you saw!”

“Yes,” he said, “I am much interested in the appearance you two little
ladies are to make at the party.”

So he was taken directly to Elsie’s dressing-room, where the dresses
were exhibited to his admiring eyes.

Mr. Travilla stayed until very nearly Elsie’s bed-time, and Mildred
and the others lingered a little after he was gone, so that the little
girl began to fear she would miss the usual private bit of chat with
her father; and she was particularly anxious for it to-night, for her
tender little heart was still sore at thought of his words, “I am not
pleased with you.”

But at last she was left alone with him, even Rose having disappeared
from the room in response to a call from the nursery.

The instant the door closed on the last of them, Mr. Dinsmore turned
to his child with outstretched hand and a kind, fatherly smile,
saying, “Come, daughter dear! we have not many minutes left before it
will be time for you to go to bed.”

“Papa, O papa!” she said, hastening to him and hiding her face on his
breast, “are you quite, quite pleased with me now?”

“Yes, darling, your fault is entirely forgiven, and now let it be
forgotten. I think it will not be repeated, and I am glad to be able
to say it is a rare thing for my little girl to be guilty of the
slightest act of disobedience. You haven’t told me about your
afternoon’s walk. Was it pleasant?”

“Oh, very nice!” she replied, lifting her head to wipe away her tears,
and give him a grateful, loving look. “Mr. Travilla was with us and
told us such nice stories. He is almost as entertaining and
instructive in conversation as you yourself, papa.”

“Almost!” he said, laughing. “Well, I can swallow the flattery,
because of the large admixture of filial love in it.”

“Is it flattery when we are perfectly sincere, papa?” she asked.

“Not gross flattery,” he said, “not meant as such at all in this case,
I am sure; love makes my little girl see her father through
rose-colored glasses.”

“But don’t you like it?” she asked naïvely.

“Yes; I must confess I do,” he returned, with a look of amusement.

Annis was with Mildred, talking about the coming party. It would be
quite an event in the child’s life, and though very unwilling to miss
it, she felt some shrinking and timidity at the prospect of meeting so
many strange people in a strange place.

“I’m afraid I won’t behave right, Milly,” she said, a little
anxiously. “I wish you could tell me just how.”

“Forget yourself, dear, and think only how to add to the enjoyment of
others. Be modest and retiring――though I need hardly tell you
that――but don’t be troubled with the idea that people are watching
you; they will have something else to attend to, and a little girl
like you is not likely to be noticed in so large a company.”

“That’s nice!” Annis remarked with satisfaction. “I think it will be
fun to watch the doings of the grown-up folks and listen to their
talk, without anybody taking notice of it――it will be almost as good
as being invisible.”

“Ah, don’t be too sure of a great deal of fun to be gained in that
way; some of the talk at such gatherings is apt to be too insipid to
be worth hearing; if nothing worse.”

“Milly, I don’t believe you care much for parties,” Annis said, half
in wonder and surprise, half inquiringly.

“No; I did once, but got my fill of them long ago; quiet home
pleasures with those I love and who love me are now far more to my
taste. Still we owe something to neighbors and friends outside of our
family, and one must not give up society altogether.”

“You’ve made me feel more comfortable about going,” remarked Annis.

“Why, I thought you were quite desirous to go! quite pleased with the
prospect!” Mildred returned in surprise.

“Yes, I did want to go, and yet I felt half frightened at the thought
of seeing so many grand ladies and gentlemen all together. I was
afraid I shouldn’t behave right at all. It’s very comfortable to think
I can look at them and hardly be seen myself.”

“You would not like to think your dress would miss being seen?”
Mildred said, playfully.

“No, indeed! it is so pretty.”

“I wish mother could see you in it!”

“Yes; and you in yours, Milly,” glancing at a beautiful evening-dress
that had just come from the mantuamaker’s. “I wonder what they are
doing at home!”

“Probably getting ready for bed; Fan at least. I think she would not
envy you your dress if it must be worn by its possessor to a large
party.”

“No, she’s so bashful; poor dear Fan!”

“Now, daughter,” Mr. Dinsmore said as they left the dinner-table on
the all-important day, “I want you to go and lie down; sleep all the
afternoon if you can. And I should advise Annis to do the same.”

Elsie obeyed of course, Annis followed his advice, and both felt very
fresh and bright when the time came for them to be arrayed for the
party.

Aunt Chloe undertook the dressing of both, “so dat Miss Mildred
needn’t hab no botheration ’bout it,” and found no difficulty in
accomplishing her task to the entire satisfaction of all concerned.

The two were dressed exactly alike except that Elsie wore a white sash
and Annis a blue one.

When the last finishing touch had been given, they went into the
library to show themselves to Mr. Dinsmore.

“Are you satisfied with us, papa?” Elsie asked, as they presented
themselves before him.

“Perfectly,” he said, glancing from one to the other with a pleased
smile, then bestowing a kiss upon each. “I hope you may enjoy
yourselves very much indeed.”

“Thank you, sir! And now I’m going up to Mildred,” Annis said, running
gayly from the room.

Elsie looked wistfully at her father. “You are all ready, papa, aren’t
you?”

“Yes,” he said, drawing her to his knee, “and as it will be far past
your usual bedtime when we come home to-night, we must have our good
time together now. Did you take your nap?”

“Oh, yes, sir, mammy says I slept more than two hours.”

“That is well; I could hardly have consented to let you go on any
other condition, because you are not strong enough to bear much loss
of sleep. It is quite possible I may not be near you in the
refreshment-room at Pinegrove, so I tell you now that you are not to
eat any rich cake or preserves, or any salad.”

Elsie laughed. “Why, papa,” she said, giving him a hug, “you never let
me eat such things at any time!”

“No, that is true, and yet I thought it as well to remind you lest you
should be tempted to yield to hospitable urgency.”

“Papa, I would not dis――” But a sudden recollection made her pause and
drop her eyes, while a crimson tide swept over the fair face and neck.

“I have not a doubt that my dear little girl fully intends to be
perfectly obedient,” he said kindly, lifting the sweet, downcast face
and pressing a kiss upon the ruby lips.

At that instant the door opened and Rose entered in full
evening-dress.

“Will I do, my dear?” she asked; “does your wife’s attire meet your
approval?”

“I am altogether satisfied with both it and her,” was the gallant
rejoinder. “Are the others ready?”

It was Annis, just coming in at the door, who answered. “Milly says
they will be down in five or ten minutes, Cousin Horace. Elsie,
sha’n’t we go and put on our wraps?”

Mrs. Dinsmore was hurrying away. Her husband called after her. “My
dear, wrap up well; for the night is cold. I have ordered the two
close carriages, but wraps will not come amiss.” Then taking Elsie’s
hand, he went with her and Annis to their rooms to see that they were
warmly clad for the ride.

“We’ll have plenty of room in two carriages, won’t we?” Annis said, as
they all gathered in the entrance hall.

“Yes; room enough to avoid crushing the ladies’ dresses I trust,”
replied Mr. Dinsmore. “Come, Mildred, you, Annis and the doctor step
into this one, and my wife, my daughter and I will take the other.”

On reaching Pinegrove they found the house ablaze with lights and many
of the guests already arrived. The ladies were shown to a
dressing-room where a servant-woman was in waiting, to help them off
with their cloaks and perform any other needed service.

Rose and Mildred here showed themselves not a whit less solicitous
about the appearance of the two little girls than in regard to their
own. Sashes and stray ringlets were readjusted and each trim little
figure subjected to a careful scrutiny to make certain that the best
effect was secured, ere they descended to the reception-rooms.

The young people were in a parlor by themselves, and thither Annis and
Elsie were conducted by one servant, while another showed the ladies
and gentlemen into the drawing-room, announcing them by name.

The host and hostess came forward to meet them with cordial greeting,
then Mildred, with an emotion of pleasure, found herself beside Mrs.
Travilla; she was sure now that the evening would pass pleasantly to
her.

There were also many other intelligent, agreeable people present, and
the room was soon full of the hum of many voices conversing in tones
more or less subdued.

Mr. Travilla sauntered round the room chatting with one and another of
his many friends and acquaintances, then passed into that appropriated
to the children. They seemed to be very merry. His entrance was
greeted with applause from the boys and looks of delight on the part
of the girls; for he was a general favorite.

“Will you allow me to take this vacant seat by your side, little
lady?” he asked, addressing Elsie.

“Oh, yes, indeed, sir! I shall be happy to have you do so,” she
returned, looking up into his face with one of her sweetest smiles.

“What is the game?” he asked. “May I take part in it?”

“It’s consequences, and we’re having fine fun. Of course we’ll be glad
to have you join us, sir,” answered several voices.

So he stayed and took part in that and several succeeding games,
apparently enjoying the sport as thoroughly as the youngest of them
all.

When the time came for the refreshments to be served, he conducted
Elsie and Annis to the supper-room and waited upon them there.

Elsie was glad her father happened to be so near at hand as to be able
to tell her what she might eat; and Annis was wise enough to follow
her cousin’s example in avoiding rich and indigestible food.

Their party were among the first to leave, yet it was so late that the
two mothers felt anxious about their babes, and the little girls were
conscious of fatigue; Elsie especially so.

Her father perceived it with concern as she came down from the
dressing-room and he caught sight of the pale, tired little face half
concealed by her hood.

He handed Rose to the carriage, then lifted Elsie tenderly and placed
her in it, seated himself by her side, and took her in his arms.

“There, darling, lay your head down on father’s shoulder,” he said.
“You must go to bed as soon as we get home, and lie there as long as
you like to-morrow morning. There shall be no lessons; nothing to
prevent my tired little girl from taking all the rest she needs.”

“Papa, you’re so good to me!” she murmured, dropping asleep almost
before the words had fairly left her lips.




CHAPTER XIX.

  “Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life;
   Dear as these eyes that weep in fondness o’er thee.”
                                               ――THOMAS OTWAY.


“She is very weary, poor darling!” Rose said softly.

“Yes,” her husband answered in the same low tones. “She is perfectly
healthy I think, but not of a vigorous constitution naturally, and has
never fully recovered her strength since――that long and terrible
illness.”

His voice was tremulous with emotion as he referred to that time of
trial――those long-past days so full of grief, anxiety and remorse that
their memory must ever be painful to him.

“I fear I hardly did right in allowing this dissipation,” he went on
after a moment’s pause, “but I thought her better able to bear it.”

“Do not be too anxious and troubled, my dear husband,” Rose said in a
gentle, affectionate tone, laying her hand lightly on his arm; “I
think the dear child will be quite restored by a few hours of sound,
refreshing sleep. And I am sure she has enjoyed the evening greatly. I
caught sight of her face several times, and it was so bright and
happy! So do not reproach yourself because you did not deny her this
pleasure.”

“My dear wife! my sweet comforter!” he returned. “How is it with you,
my love? are you much fatigued?”

“Oh, no! only enough so to feel that home and bed will be enjoyable
when reached. I have had a very pleasant evening, and hope you can say
the same.”

“Yes; it is pleasant to meet one’s friends and acquaintances in that
way now and then.”

Elsie awoke only partially when the carriage stopped at their own
door, and her father carried her to her room in his arms.

“Get her to bed as quickly as you can, Aunt Chloe,” he said; “and in
the morning darken the room and keep her asleep as long as possible.
Annis, my dear,” turning to her, “I fear you too must be very tired?”

“Oh, no, sir, only a little. I think I must be a great deal stronger
than Elsie.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, go to bed now, and don’t feel that there
is the least occasion to rise from it until you choose.”

“That’s very kind in you, Cousin Horace,” she said, kissing him
good-night. “I daresay I shall want a good nap in the morning.”

She withdrew to her room, wide enough awake, and not too weary to
prepare herself for bed.

Mr. Dinsmore stayed and assisted Aunt Chloe in her labors. He could
not persuade himself to leave his darling child, until he saw her
resting comfortably on her couch. Then he bent over her with a tender
caress and a murmured blessing.

“‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee. The Lord make his face shine upon
thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon
thee, and give thee peace.’”

“Dear papa,” she said, putting her arm about his neck, “that is such a
sweet blessing! doubly sweet because my father asks it of God for me.
And may he give it to you, too, dear papa.”

She was so tired that she fell asleep again with the last
word――“papa”――still trembling on her lips.

Mr. Dinsmore’s first act on leaving his room the next morning was to
steal softly to Elsie’s bedside and bend over her.

She was still sleeping, the sound, refreshing sleep of healthful
childhood; the rose had returned to her cheek, the slightly parted
lips were ruby-red. Evidently she was none the worse for the last
night’s fatigue, and he turned away with a sigh of relief.

Two hours longer she slept, then awoke to find her father standing
close at her side. The full red lips parted in the sweetest of smiles,
and the soft dark eyes lifted to his were luminous with love and joy
called forth by the fond affection they read in his.

“Good-morning, papa!” she said in her sweet, silvery tones. “It is
morning, isn’t it? though the light is so faint.”

“Yes; I had the room partially darkened that my tired little girl
might sleep off her fatigue.”

“Thank you, sir! my dear, kind father! May I get up now?”

“Yes; or will you take your breakfast in bed?”

“I’d rather get up and be dressed first, if you please, papa.”

“You are quite rested?”

“Yes, sir, quite. I feel very well.”

“I am more thankful than words can express,” he sighed, caressing her
with hand and lip. “You seemed so completely overcome last night that
I have been haunted with the fear that something more than fatigue
ailed you.”

“My dear papa!” she said again, stroking his face as he leaned over
her, “my dear, kind, loving papa! I was only very tired, that was all,
and I didn’t know I was that till just as I was putting on my wraps to
come home, I’d had such a nice time, but all at once, when the fun
stopped, I felt as if the strength had all gone out of me.”

The murmur of their voices had reached Annis, who was busy with her
toilet.

“Good-morning,” she said, opening the door a very little and peering
in through the crack.

“Good-morning,” Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie both responded. “Have you slept
well? and do you feel rested?”

“Yes, thank you, I never felt better in my life. But I’m ashamed to
have slept so late. Do you know what time it is, Elsie?”

“No.”

“Ten o’clock.”

Annis’s tone was full of a sort of dismayed astonishment. Elsie
started up in such haste and sprang out of bed so nimbly that her
father laughed to see her.

“No need of such haste, darling,” he said, “nor for you to feel
troubled, Annis; we older people have only just breakfasted. Aunt
Chloe must make haste with your toilet, Elsie, and in the mean while
breakfast shall be laid for you and Annis in your boudoir; and when
you have satisfied your appetite you may come to me in the study. I
will leave you until then.”

It was a very delicious little breakfast the children found awaiting
them in the pretty boudoir, and they brought to it appetites keen
enough to make it most enjoyable.

Then the one went to her father, the other to her sister to spend the
next half hour.

By that time the large, roomy family carriage was at the door, and
ladies, gentlemen and children took a delightful drive; for the sun
shone brightly and the air was just cold enough to be pleasant and
bracing to mind and body.

It was now the last of November, and from this time until the
beginning of the Christmas holidays ladies and children were much
occupied with preparations for them; principally shopping and making
up pretty things as Christmas gifts to relatives and friends.

Elsie and Annis were somewhat disposed to neglect lessons for this
more fascinating employment, but Mr. Dinsmore would by no means permit
it; he was firm in his determination that every task should be
thoroughly well learned each day before the fancy work might be
touched, or a shopping expedition undertaken. Nor would he allow any
curtailment of the usual daily out-door exercise.

They occasionally ventured a slight complaint that it was very
difficult to fix their thoughts on lessons when so greatly interested
in other things; but he was inexorable.

“It can and must be done,” he would say, gently but firmly, addressing
his own daughter more particularly; “that a thing which ought to be
done is difficult, is no reason for excusing ourselves from making the
necessary effort to do it. As I have told you before, my child, the
determined effort to concentrate your thoughts is excellent mental
discipline for you.”

He was not very busy at this time, and spent some hours each
day――generally those in which the children were conning their
tasks――in reading to his wife and Mildred, while they plied the
needle; all three in this way renewing their acquaintance most
agreeably with Shakspeare, Wordsworth, Scott, Dickens, and other poets
and novelists.

The book in hand was generally laid aside when the little girls joined
them, but occasionally Mr. Dinsmore read on when he thought the
passage unobjectionable even for minds so immature as theirs.
Sometimes, too, the books were discussed in their hearing, arousing
their interest and curiosity more than their elders realized.

Mr. Dinsmore had always strictly forbidden novels to Elsie, telling
her she should read Scott’s, Dickens’ and others of the better class
when he considered her old enough, but not till then.

One evening as they were all gathered in the parlor, Dr. Landreth and
Mr. Travilla being of the party also, the talk ran for some time upon
the characters and incidents of “Kenilworth” and “Ivanhoe,” then of
“Barnaby Rudge,” “Oliver Twist” and “David Copperfield.”

Elsie, seated upon her father’s knee, listened with growing interest.
“Papa,” she whispered, with her arm about his neck, her eyes gazing
pleadingly into his, as a pause in the conversation gave her an
opportunity, “mayn’t I read those books?”

“Some day; several years hence,” he said, softly stroking her hair and
smiling into the beseeching eyes.

“Oh, but I mean now, papa! I――”

“No, my child,” he said, with grave decision, “they are not suited to
your tender years. And as you have no lack of reading matter that is,
and which interests as well as instructs you, I think my prohibition
ought not to be felt as a very severe trial.”

Christmas fell on Tuesday that year. Elsie’s guests were invited to
come to the Oaks on Monday, the twenty-fourth, to dinner, and to
remain until the following Saturday night. It was her own choice not
to have them there on Sunday.

“Because, papa,” she said, “you know I should find it very difficult
to keep the Sabbath day holy with a company of gay young friends to
entertain; indeed I’m afraid I could not do it.”

“Yes, I fear so too,” he returned, “and besides you will be, by that
time, in need of rest from the care and trouble of entertaining.”

Then remembering how ill able she was to bear late hours, he, after a
moment’s reflection, bade her mention in each note of invitation that
the parents need not fear that their children would be injured by loss
of necessary sleep, as early hours would be kept except on Christmas
eve, and even then their sports should not continue later than ten
o’clock.

Her extreme fatigue from the Pinegrove party made him very glad he had
taken this precaution. No mother ever watched more tenderly and
untiringly over a child’s welfare than he over that of this darling
only daughter. And no childish heart was ever more full of grateful
filial love than Elsie’s.

Glowing accounts, heard through the servants, of the grand
preparations going on at the Oaks soon made Enna regret her haste in
rejecting her brother’s invitation, and the regret deepened as time
went on, till at length she resolved that she couldn’t and wouldn’t
miss the fun and the feasting in store for Elsie’s guests; so she
coaxed and wheedled her mother into writing a note to Mrs. Rose
Dinsmore saying they might expect Enna; she would come to dinner on
Monday, and probably remain through the week.

This note was handed Rose at the breakfast-table on Saturday. She
glanced over it, laughed a little, then read it aloud.

Mr. Dinsmore smiled sarcastically. Elsie sighed, and Annis looked
provoked. Evidently Enna would not be the most welcome of the expected
guests.

But it was entirely the fault of her own ill-temper and selfishness.

“Well, daughter,” Mr. Dinsmore said cheerily, for Elsie’s sigh, though
neither loud nor deep, had reached his ear, “don’t let this――shall I
say unfortunate?――turn of affairs spoil your pleasure. It may be that
Enna will show herself in a new character. At all events we have still
two days of grace.”

“Oh, yes, sir!” she responded, her face resuming its accustomed sweet
and joyous expression, “and I think we’ll enjoy our shopping to-day. I
have my list made out and I hope we’ll be able to get everything;
because we could hardly take time to go in again on Monday.”

“No, certainly not, at least not without tiring you too much, as you
expect to have a gay and long evening with your young guests.”

“And Monday morning must be devoted to labelling presents and trimming
the Christmas tree,” remarked Rose.

“How many are going to the city this morning?” asked Mr. Dinsmore.

“All except babies and servants,” answered his wife.

“Then shall I order the family carriage to be at the door in fifteen
minutes after prayers?”

“Yes, if you please; it will be best to start as early as we can;
though our shopping to-day is not likely to be very arduous; we have
already bought everything the selection of which would require much
time and taste.”

Mr. Dinsmore remarked that he had directed two of the servants to go
into the woods that morning to get the Christmas tree. Then he
proposed that it should be set up in a parlor not in constant use,
trimmed that evening, and the room door locked until the proper hour
of exhibition on Monday.

“My dear, I believe yours is the better plan,” said Rose. “Do you not
think so, Cousin Mildred?”

“Yes, decidedly so, if we do not fatigue ourselves too much in the
city to-day.”

“Can we help?” the little girls were asking.

“Oh, no!” returned the older people in chorus, “you are to have the
pleasure of the surprise of seeing the finished work on Christmas
eve.”

“Yes, there is one thing they can do,” Mr. Dinsmore said; “label the
presents they give to others.”

They were well pleased with the suggestion; indeed seemed in a mood to
be pleased with everything except the prospect of Enna’s company the
following week, and that they resolutely refused to contemplate.

They enjoyed their drive, their shopping, the home-coming after it,
and the good dinner that followed; then a restful chat between
themselves and with the older people――plans for the entertainment and
amusement of the expected guests being the staple of discourse――and a
romp with the babies.

A gallop about the grounds on the Shetland ponies and the labelling of
their presents filled up the most of their time for the remainder of
the day and evening, and they went early to bed to be ready for the
full enjoyment of the coming Lord’s day with its sacred duties and
pleasures.




CHAPTER XX.

  “Haste thee, my nymph, and bring with thee
   Jest and youthful jollity,
   Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,
   Nods and becks and wreathed smiles.”
                                  ――MILTON’S L’ALLEGRO.


Monday came――clear, bright, and warm for the season.

“As lovely a day as we could have asked for,” Annis said, and Elsie
responded, “Yes, indeed! I think everybody will come, for no regrets
have been sent in and there is no excuse to be found in weather or the
state of the roads.”

“I don’t believe anybody is anxious for an excuse,” said Annis. “I
haven’t a doubt they’re all glad you invited them.”

All their preparations being already made, the children spent nearly
all the morning in out-of-door sports, making the most of the good
weather, and coming in just in time to be dressed for dinner at as
early an hour as any of the invited guests could be expected.

They all came; both older and younger, ladies and gentlemen, girls and
boys――excepting Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, of Roselands, who had accepted
a prior invitation.

It had been foreseen that in such case the house would be so full that
Elsie and Annis would each be constrained to accept a bed-fellow, and
Annis had expressed a strong preference for sharing Elsie’s room and
bed, giving up hers to two of the new-comers; and so it was arranged;
Carrie Howard and Lucy Carrington being installed in Annis’s room,
immediately on their arrival.

They had scarcely taken possession when the Roselands’ carriage drove
up and deposited Adelaide, Walter, and Enna.

“I meant to be among the first,” Adelaide said, as Rose hastened to
meet her at the door with a warm, sisterly greeting, “but Enna delayed
us so with her whims and tempers that I presume we are the very last.”

“Yes, you are a few minutes behind the Carringtons, who came after
everybody else but you; but never mind, it’s better late than never,
and you are in full time for dinner. Come let me have the pleasure of
showing you to your room. I am sorry to have to ask you to take Enna
in with you, but we are so full that we have no separate room to offer
her.”

“There is no need of apology,” Adelaide returned good-humoredly; “and
I think it is a much better plan than it would be to put her with any
one else. Come, Enna, you are to go with me. Didn’t you hear?”

“Yes; but what if I don’t choose to?” the child answered, with a pout.

“In that case you can return by the way you came,” said Mr. Dinsmore,
appearing on the scene. “How do you do, Adelaide?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said, moving on down the hall with him and
Rose, leaving Enna to follow or not as she pleased.

Enna hung back, muttering that “she wouldn’t stay to be abused and
treated like a nobody.”

“No, don’t,” said Walter teasingly, “stand on your dignity and go
home. I wish you would; for I know we’ll have a great deal better time
without you.”

“You hateful boy! I shan’t go one step!” she exclaimed, stamping her
foot at him and rushing after Adelaide and the others.

“I say, En,” he called after her, with a grin, “you’d better be on
your good behavior, or Santa Claus will pass you by.”

“Marse Walter, shall I show you to yo’ room, sah?” asked a servant who
had all this time stood respectfully waiting.

“Yes, Dick; I suppose I’d better see if I’m all right for dinner.”

“Now, Enna,” Adelaide said, turning to the pouting child, as the door
of their room closed upon Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore, leaving them alone
together, “you must behave yourself decently or you shall go home at
once, whether you will or no.”

Enna was by no means willing to miss the fun and gifts or the feasting
which she knew were in store for those who should share the
hospitalities of the Oaks for the next few days, and being well aware
that Adelaide was quite capable of carrying out her threat, especially
if assisted by their Brother Horace, she reluctantly decided to banish
her ill humor and submit quietly, if not quite pleasantly, to the
arrangements that had been made for her.

Going down to the drawing-room they found the whole company of old and
young gathered there; and presently dinner was announced.

It was a grand affair of many courses, and when they left the table
the short winter day was drawing to a close. There was no wine upon
the table, for the Dinsmores of the Oaks were strictly temperate in
principle and practice, but the most fragrant and delicious coffee was
served with the last course.

After that the gentlemen who did not smoke withdrew with the ladies to
the drawing-room, the lads went out into the grounds to amuse
themselves there until dark, and Elsie, taking the little girls to her
apartments, showed them her baby house, with its family of dolls, a
number of other costly toys, a cabinet of curiosities, books, and
pictures. There was no lack of material for their entertainment, and
tongues ran fast as they talked of what they were handling and of the
Christmas gifts they had received before leaving home or expected to
have sent them to-morrow.

As Elsie’s doating father was constantly adding to her store of pretty
things, there were some which were new even to Enna.

She regarded them with curiosity at first, then with an envious eye;
in sullen silence for a time; but at length, in a pause of the
conversation, she remarked, “I don’t think it’s fair, Elsie, that you
should have so much more of everything nice than anybody else has.”

“I do then!” exclaimed Carrie Howard, “because she’s so nice herself.
Besides I know that with all her blessings she’s had her trials too.”

“What?” cried Enna, snappishly.

“You for one,” returned Carrie, laughing.

“Thank you, Miss Howard, but I don’t belong to her,” snapped Enna,
growing very red and angry.

This sally was greeted with a general laugh, which only had the effect
to increase Enna’s anger, though Elsie did not join in it.

“Don’t be vexed, Enna, they are only teasing you a little,” she said
in a gentle, persuasive tone. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

“But I will! and I shan’t stay here to be insulted! I believe you just
put them up to it, you hateful thing!” And the angry child marched out
of the room, holding her head high, as she had seen her mother do when
similarly affected.

Everybody felt relieved, and the gay, mirthful chat and light,
careless laugh were resumed.

Elsie alone was slightly disturbed by Enna’s behavior. She was
somewhat abstracted for a moment while considering the question
whether what had occurred was of such a nature that she must report it
to her father in obedience to his command; but having decided in the
negative, she recovered her accustomed sweet serenity and gave her
whole attention to promoting the enjoyment of her remaining guests.

“Girls,” she said presently, “wouldn’t you like to see my baby
brother, and Cousin Mildred’s little Percy?”

“Oh, yes!” they all answered, Annis adding to the stranger guests,
“They’re both so pretty and sweet.”

Elsie led the way to the nursery, where they found the little fellows,
each in the arms of his mother, and in a state of mind and condition
of dress to show off to advantage.

Elsie and Annis, to say nothing of the mothers, were very fond of both
the babes, and enjoyed the exhibition quite as much as did the
visitors.

Enna had betaken herself to the drawing-room, and in answer to
Adelaide’s query why she had left her mates, asserted that they were
all as cross and hateful as they could be.

“Ah!” returned Adelaide indifferently. “Well, I have noticed that
people are very apt to get a return of the treatment they give.” And
with that she resumed her chat with a lady sitting on her other side,
and left Enna to amuse herself as she best could.

The child found it dull enough sitting there, or wandering about the
room unnoticed, but was too proud to go back to the society of those
she had left in a pet.

Herbert Carrington, Lucy’s twin brother, was the only other child in
the room just then. He sat in a window overlooking that part of the
grounds where the other boys were sporting, and was watching them with
wistful eyes, probably feeling the lameness which prevented him from
joining them a sore trial. But he was a patient sufferer and very
seldom uttered a word of complaint.

Elsie, in Enna’s place, would have gone to him and tried to cheer and
entertain him; but the latter only looked toward him and turned away
with a face of disgust, despising the poor lad for the physical
infirmity which was not his fault, but his sad misfortune.

But it began to grow dark; lamps were lighted, and the boys came in.

The children were growing eager for the opening of the doors of the
room where the Christmas tree was, and indeed some of the older people
were somewhat impatient to see it, and to learn the nature of the
fruits it bore. All were ready to accept the invitation to do so on
leaving the tea-table.

It was a fine, large tree reaching from floor to ceiling, with wide
spreading branches almost bending beneath the weight of glittering
ornaments, toys, candies, fruits, and many more costly things.

When there had been sufficient time for everybody to see and
thoroughly appreciate its present appearance, the work of distribution
began, Mr. Travilla taking down the presents, calling aloud the name
on each, and Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore and Adelaide handing them to the
owners.

No one――member of the family, guest, or servant――had been forgotten or
neglected. The gifts had been carefully chosen to suit the
circumstances and tastes of each recipient, and seemed to afford very
general satisfaction. Even Enna could for once find no cause or excuse
for grumbling, having received a pair of very beautiful bracelets from
Elsie; necklace, pin, and ear-rings to match from Mr. Dinsmore and
Rose; besides some smaller gifts from other relatives.

Fortunately she did not know that some of Elsie’s presents――in
particular a set of pink coral――necklace and bracelets――from her
father, and an opal ring from Mr. Travilla, were far more costly than
her own.

Annis thought she fared wonderfully well; receiving a pair of gold
bracelets from Elsie, a gold chain for her neck from Mr. Dinsmore, and
a gold locket enamelled with blue forget-me-nots from Mildred; also, a
pearl ring from Mr. Travilla, one set with a topaz from Dr. Landreth,
and a dozen beautiful handkerchiefs from Rose.

The other gifts of jewelry were a moonstone ring to Mildred, from her
husband, and a sardonyx from Mr. Dinsmore to Rose.

These four happening to be grouped together with Mr. Travilla, Annis,
and Elsie, Mildred said, looking down at her new ring, which her
husband had just slipped upon her finger, “This is very pretty, my
dear; but had you any motive for selecting this particular kind of
stone? Precious stones are said to have a language as well as flowers,
are they not?”

“Yes, and moonstone is said to protect from harm and danger,” returned
the doctor, laughingly.

“And sardonyx?” asked Rose.

“Insures conjugal felicity,” replied her husband, with a fond look
into her sweet face.

“O Mr. Travilla! what’s the language of this?――opal is it?” asked
Elsie.

“Yes, my little friend, it is an opal, and is said to denote hope and
to sharpen the faith and sight of the possessor.”

“Thank you!” she exclaimed heartily, gazing down at it with a pleased,
happy face.

“And what is the language of pearls?” asked Annis, looking admiringly
at hers.

“Purity, and they are said to give clearness to both physical and
mental vision.”

“Oh, I like that!” she said, “and I think you were very, very kind to
give it to me.”

Elsie had stolen close to her father’s side and slipped one hand into
his.

He bent down to look smilingly into her eyes and give her a gentle
kiss.

“Papa,” she said softly, “thank you very much for your lovely
present.”

“Welcome, my darling, and many thanks to you for my beautiful present
from you.”

It was a small but very fine painting by one of the old masters. She
had given a beautiful lace set――collar and under-sleeves――to her mamma
and one to Mildred.

The presents having all been distributed, the ladies and gentlemen
adjourned to the drawing-room, leaving the children in possession of
the parlor where the tree stood.

“Let’s play games!” cried a chorus of voices in which several boyish
ones were conspicuous.

Elsie asked what they would have, suggesting a number of the quieter
kind; but none of those seemed to suit; evidently the majority at
least were in a romping mood.

“Hot――butter――beans,” proposed Walter; “that’s good fun and needn’t be
so very noisy either.”

No dissenting voices being raised, Elsie asked, “What shall we hide?”

“Here’s a mouse made of gray canton flannel,” said Annis, taking it
from where it lay at the foot of the tree. “I should think that it
would do very well.”

“Yes; and as you have it in your hand, you will hide it first.”

“Yes, if nobody else wants to. Now all cover your eyes, please, and
don’t look till I say, ‘Hot――butter――beans! please to come to
supper.’”

The game was continued for some time with the understanding that the
hiding must be done in that room; then as the good places seemed to
have all been used, they took in the next room and the spacious
entrance hall beyond.

At length Elsie was the finder, and it became her turn to hide the
mouse. With it in her hand she stole softly into the hall and glanced
around from floor to ceiling.

It was a very large and handsome apartment, the ceiling lofty, the
floor of tessellated marble, the walls frescoed and adorned with two
or three fine paintings and several pieces of choice statuary.

Glancing up at one of those last, occupying a niche several feet above
the floor, the child thought what a good hiding-place for the mouse
might be made of that niche; she could surely slip the little thing in
behind the feet of the statue, where it could not be seen, and who
would ever think of looking for it there?

She was not tall enough to reach up to the place while standing on the
floor, but softly moved a chair near and stepped upon it.

Even then she could not reach easily, not without standing on the edge
of the chair, and just as she seemed to have attained her object it
slipped from under her; she caught wildly at the statue to save
herself from falling, and she and it came down together with a
terrible crash, upon the marble floor.




CHAPTER XXI.

  “At Christmas play, and make good cheer,
   For Christmas comes but once a year.”
                                          ――TUSSER.


The whole house was aroused and terrified by the sudden crashing
sound, succeeded by perfect stillness, and members of the family,
guests, and servants came rushing into the hall, most of them in wild
excitement, not knowing but the next thing might be the falling in of
the roof, or the tumbling of the walls about their ears.

Mr. Dinsmore, who happened to be standing close by the drawing-room
door at that end of the hall, was the foremost of the crowd, and saw
with a thrill of terror and despair his darling only daughter lying
apparently insensible upon the floor, killed as he thought by the
crushing weight of the statue, which seemed to rest upon her prostrate
form.

In an instant he was at her side, his terror somewhat abated as he
perceived that it had missed her, though by but a hair’s breadth, and
that she was making an effort to rise.

“My child! my darling!” he said tremulously, stooping over her and
gently raising her in his arms, “are you much hurt?”

“No, papa; not much I think,” she murmured faintly, for the fall had
partially stunned her, “but O papa, I’ve broken your lovely statue,
and I’m so sorry!”

“Never mind that; what do I care for it in comparison with you!” he
said almost indignantly, making his way through the crowd of
frightened, anxious guests and servants.

“Is she much hurt?”

“How did it happen?”

“How did she come to fall?” everybody was asking of her father or of
each other, as they fell back from the drawing-room door to let him
enter.

He did not seem to hear or heed them: his attention was wholly
occupied with her.

“Am I giving you pain?” he asked in tenderest tones.

“Very little,” she answered, and her voice sounded quite natural now.

He sat down with her on a sofa, Rose, Mildred, Dr. Landreth, and Mr.
Travilla gathering round.

“Where are you hurt, dear child?” the doctor asked.

“Only my knee, sir, and I don’t think it’s more than bruised,” she
said, looking up into his face with a faint smile, “and I’m ashamed to
have frightened you all so.”

But her head dropped on her father’s shoulder as she spoke and she
grew deathly pale.

Her father’s face reflected the pallor of hers as the thought darted
into his mind that she might have received some internal injury.

“She is faint from the shock to her nervous system,” the doctor said.
“Better carry her to her room and lay her on her bed.”

The advice was followed at once, her father lifting her again in his
arms and carrying her as gently and tenderly as possible, the doctor
and Rose following at his request.

The last named soon returned to the drawing-room, where the guests
were waiting in almost silent expectancy, with the good news that the
doctor found no serious injury, the shock of the fall and a few not
very bad bruises were all he could discover. He thought she would be
about again next day.

Rose added that Mr. Dinsmore wished to be excused for a short season,
and hoped they would enjoy themselves as if nothing had happened to
disturb them.

“I should have her put to bed at once and get to sleep as soon as
possible,” Dr. Landreth said as he left Elsie’s room.

“Yes, it shall be done,” Mr. Dinsmore answered. “Aunt Chloe, undress
her immediately. I will help you. There, put these away carefully,”
handing her the necklace and bracelets he just unclasped from his
daughter’s neck and arms. Then to Elsie, “Keep as quiet as you can,
dearest, and let papa and mammy do it all.”

“Dear papa, you seem to have no reproof at all for me!” she said,
looking lovingly into his eyes.

“That can wait till to-morrow,” he answered with playful look and
tone. “I am sorry for my little pet that her Christmas eve should be
so spoiled for her,” he added presently, giving her a tender caress.

“But it was my own fault, papa, and I’m afraid I’ve spoiled yours and
other people’s too.”

“Well, well, accidents will happen; and you shall tell me all about it
to-morrow if you feel equal to the task. Now I shall sit beside you
until you go to sleep.”

“How nice, dear papa!” she exclaimed, “it more than pays for my slight
hurts and my fright, for oh, I was frightened when I felt myself
falling.”

“There! don’t talk about it any more to-night,” he said, holding her
close to his heart for an instant, then laying her in her bed.

“Papa,” she asked, “must I say my prayers in bed?”

“For to-night I think you must; and they need not be very long; we are
not heard for our much speaking.”

It was not long ere she slept; until then he sat beside the bed,
holding her hand in his and singing softly one of her favorite hymns.

Then enjoining it upon the old nurse to watch her carefully, and if
she woke and seemed in pain to send at once for him, he returned to
his guests.

He wanted her without a bed-fellow that night that he might feel free
to go to her when he would, so Annis occupied a couch in Mildred’s
dressing-room.

Elsie was still sleeping sweetly when her father came in and stood by
her bed the last thing before seeking his own, and he always found her
so when he stole softly in again two or three times during the night.

She woke at her usual hour in the morning, and hearing him moving
quietly about in the next room, called softly to him, “Merry
Christmas, dear papa.”

“Ah, my darling! a merry Christmas and happy New Year to you!” he
responded, coming quickly to her side. “You are looking very bright,”
he added joyously, bending down to kiss forehead, lips, cheeks, and
eyes. “Do you feel no ill effects from your fall?”

“No, sir. May I get up now, and come to you in the study when I am
dressed?”

“Yes; if you feel quite able. Aunt Chloe,” as the old nurse came in,
“bring Miss Elsie a glass of good, rich iced milk and let her drink it
before she rises.”

“Yes, sah, I’se do dat berry ting,” returned Aunt Chloe. “How is you,
honey? well ’nuff to get out ob bed dis Christmas mornin’?”

“Yes, mammy; but why don’t you catch me? aren’t you afraid you’ll miss
your Christmas gift?”

“Yah, yah, chile! not a bit! ’spect you’s got it all ready an’
couldn’t keep it from your ole mammy ef you tried. Now I’se off after
dat milk. But fust I hopes, darlin’, you’ll hab de merriest of
Christmases and de happiest New Year de good Lord eber give you.”

“Thank you, dear old mammy; and may you have the same,” Elsie
responded, looking affectionately after her nurse as she hurried from
the room.

Her father stayed with her till he had seen her drain the glass of
sweet rich milk which Aunt Chloe brought, then left her to be dressed.

Going through the hall on the way to his study, he passed the scene of
last night’s accident. The statue had been replaced in its niche by
the servants, but it was a wreck, the nose crushed, an arm and a foot
broken.

He had valued it in the past, but his only emotion as he glanced at it
now was one of heartfelt thankfulness that it had fallen beside rather
than upon his child.

Half an hour later she came to him looking so bright and happy, so
sweet and fair, that his pulses bounded with joy at the sight.

She ran into his outstretched arms, put hers about his neck and
pressed her sweet lips to his again and again. “Dear, dear papa, how I
love you!” she said, laying her soft cheek to his. “I do believe
almost any other father would have scolded and punished me too, last
night.”

“Not a father who loved you as I do. But how did it all happen? I
cannot think what you could have been doing there.”

Then she told him all about it, adding, “I saw the statue just now and
it is quite ruined. O papa, I am so sorry!”

“Never mind that; if this accident teaches you a lesson on the folly
and danger of climbing up and reaching in that way――such a lesson that
you will never try it again――I shall not mourn over the loss; but
consider your safety cheaply purchased by it. But do you know what you
have brought on yourself by this escapade?”

“What, papa?” she asked with a startled look up into his face. His
tone was so grave it half frightened her.

“Your father’s presence with you and your mates whenever there is any
romping game to be played.”

“Oh,” she cried, clapping her hands, “that will be _so_ nice! And will
you join us in the games?”

“Perhaps. Now let us have our reading. I have chosen the sweet story
of our Saviour’s birth and the visit of the angels to the shepherds,
as the most appropriate to the day.”

“Yes, papa, surely it is,” she said, a sweet, tender gravity
overspreading her lovely countenance, while the soft eyes were
luminous with love and joy. “I have been thinking of it all the
morning, and thanking God in my heart for the gift of his dear Son.
And this is my verse for to-day: ‘God so loved the world, that he gave
his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not
perish, but have everlasting life.’ O papa, isn’t that a sweet, sweet
verse? and wasn’t it wonderful love?”

A little before the breakfast hour Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie went to the
drawing-room, where they found Rose, Mildred, and Annis.

No one else was there at the moment, though very soon Dr. Landreth and
Mr. Travilla came in; then one guest after another until nearly all
were present.

The two ladies and Annis embraced Elsie in turn, saying how glad they
were to see her looking so well in spite of her accident, and how
alarmed about her they had been.

“Are you quite sure that you feel none the worse for it?” asked Rose.

“No, mamma; I am so very sorry to have broken that lovely statue.”

“It is a pity,” Rose said with a slight smile, “but I am sure your
papa does not want you to grieve in the very least over it, and my
query referred altogether to bodily injury.”

“Please excuse me, mamma,” Elsie said, “I’m afraid my misunderstanding
was partly wilful. I have a few bruises, but they scarcely hurt me
unless they are touched.”

Inquiries, condolences, and Christmas greetings and good wishes were
showered upon her as the other visitors gathered in, until at length
Enna remarked with a disdainful toss of the head, “Dear me! Elsie,
what a fuss everybody does make over you, just because you had a
trifling accident――a fall off a chair!”

“A fall off a chair, Miss Enna,” said Mr. Travilla, “has sometimes
proved a very serious affair; and if that statue had fallen on instead
of alongside of our little friend, it would without doubt have broken
some of her bones, if nothing worse.”

“I’m glad it didn’t then; ’twould have spoiled all our fun, for of
course Horace would have sent us all home at once.”

“Well, Enna, one thing can be said in your praise――that you are no
hypocrite,” exclaimed Carrie Howard, with a scornful curl of the lip,
“if you _are_ utterly heartless, you don’t try to hide it with a
pretence of sensibility and kindness.”

“You are well answered and reproved for once, Enna,” remarked Mr.
Dinsmore with grave displeasure and disgust.

The morning was so fine that the family and guests spent the greater
part of it in the open air, riding, driving, or walking. Elsie
generously gave up her phaeton to Carrie and Lucy――the other little
girls to take their turn afterward――the larger ponies to the boys; but
her father and Mr. Travilla drove her and Annis out in the carriage of
the latter.

There was a great deal of candy about, every one having received a box
of it when the gifts were distributed, and some of the little people
ate so much that evening and on getting up in the morning that they
brought little appetite to their breakfast; but Elsie had not yet
tasted it.

“What is that?” her father asked, seeing a paper parcel in her hand as
she came out to take her drive.

“My box of candy, papa. I thought it would be nice to hand round to
you all, and perhaps you would let me eat some too. I haven’t had any
at all yet.”

“Yes,” he said, handing her into the carriage, “you may eat a little
now, and shall have a larger quantity after dinner.”

“Cousin Horace,” remarked Annis, who was already seated in the
carriage, “I do think Elsie is the best girl in the world! I don’t
believe I could have resisted the temptation to taste a little candy,
when everybody around me was eating it, as she did last night.”

“Yes,” he said, looking fondly at his little girl, “she is a good,
obedient child.”

Elsie’s face flushed with pleasure at his words and her eyes sparkled.

Of course there was a grand Christmas dinner at the Oaks, where, in
addition to a great variety of toothsome viands, there was “the feast
of reason and the flow of soul.”

Innocent pleasures were provided in abundance for the afternoon and
evening of that day and all the others to the end of the week;
intellectual conversation, music of a high order, tableaux vivans,
acting of charades, and others too numerous to mention.

There was very little jarring among the participants, old or young.
Enna behaved uncommonly well, probably because either Mr. Dinsmore or
Mr. Travilla was almost always present; often both were; and in their
occasional absences, Rose, Adelaide, or Mildred was sure to be near
enough to see and hear all that went on.

Thus Elsie was secured from ill-usage and from being burdened with the
responsibility of providing amusement for her guests.

Both she and Annis enjoyed the week greatly, yet felt a sense of
relief when on Saturday evening the last of their guests had departed,
leaving them to the full enjoyment of each other’s society and that of
the usual quiet home circle. The older guests had gone too, with the
exception of Adelaide and Mr. and Mrs. Travilla, but they seemed
almost to belong to the family.




CHAPTER XXII.

  “How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
   Is laid for your faith in his excellent word!
   What more can he say than to you he hath said,
   You who unto Jesus for refuge hath fled.”
                                            ――KIRKHAM.


“The last Sunday of the old year!” Mrs Travilla said in a low,
meditative tone, more as if thinking aloud than addressing her
companions.

It was evening and all the family at the Oaks were gathered about the
fire in the parlor usually occupied by them when alone. It was not so
large as the drawing-room and seemed cosier for a small company.

“Yes, a solemn thought,” said Rose; “the last Sunday and the last
hours of the old year seem most appropriate seasons for a glance
backward at the path we have already trod, and forward over that which
still lies before.”

“Yes, looking back to see wherein we have stepped aside out of the
strait and narrow way that leads to eternal life, and forward with the
resolve that with God’s help we will walk more steadily in it; that we
will run in the way of his commandments.” It was Mildred who spoke.

“And not at our shortcomings only,” resumed the old lady, “but also at
God’s great mercies in the past and all his great and precious
promises for the future. ‘Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end
of the world.’ ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’ ‘And even
to your old age I am he, and even to hoar hairs I will carry you.’
‘This God is our God forever and ever, he will be our guide even unto
death.’

“I want to testify to you all to-night that in a life of threescore
and ten I have found him ever faithful to his promises; goodness and
mercy have followed me all the days of my life thus far, and shall
surely do so to the very end.

“I have not been without trials――many and sometimes very sore; having
seen the grave close over a beloved husband and five dear
children――but he has sustained me under them all. Oh, it is in the
darkest hours the star of his wondrous love shines forth in its
greatest power and splendor, and we learn the sweetness of resting
wholly upon him! As my days, so has my strength been; because the
eternal God was my refuge, and underneath were the everlasting arms.”

“Ah!” said Mildred, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them
with the last words of her dear old friend, “all we want to make us
supremely happy is faith enough to believe every word our Master says,
to trust him fully with both our temporal and spiritual interests, and
to keep all his sweet commands.”

“Such as what, love?” asked her husband softly, sitting close by her
side.

“I was thinking of the opening verses of the forty-third chapter of
Isaiah,” she answered. “In the first and second verses he says, ‘O
Israel, fear not; for I have redeemed thee; I have called thee by thy
name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be
with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when
thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall
the flame kindle upon thee.’

“And again in the fifth, ‘Fear not, for I am with thee.’ Could we miss
being happy if we fully obeyed so much as this one command, ‘Fear
not,’ and fully believed and trusted in these precious promises?”

“I think not,” said Mr. Dinsmore, “and what right have we to disobey
in being afraid of anything――loss, accident, sickness, death, the
enmity and malice of temporal or spiritual foes?――when he bids us fear
not! And again he says, ‘Be careful for nothing.’ ‘Take no thought for
your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, nor yet for your
body, what ye shall put on.’”

He paused, and Mrs. Travilla added another quotation.

“‘But seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all
these things shall be added unto you.’”

“And,” said Rose, “Paul tells us, ‘Godliness is profitable unto all
things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is
to come.’”

“Papa,” said Elsie, “mayn’t we see how many of these little
commandments we can remember?”

“Shall we?” he asked, glancing around the little circle.

All agreed that it would be a pleasant and profitable exercise, and
Mrs. Travilla, as the oldest person present, began, the others
following as a text occurred to them.

“‘My son, give me thy heart.’”

“‘Come unto me,’ the word of Jesus,” Rose said, “and he bids us bring
to him others who have need of healing; ‘Bring him hither to me,’ he
said of the boy who had a dumb and deaf spirit. ‘Let him that heareth
say come.’”

“And having come,” said Mildred, “we are to be strong in the Lord and
in the power of his might, and to grow in grace and in the knowledge
of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”

“‘Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you,’” was the
doctor’s text.

Then Mr. Travilla: “‘Not slothful in business; fervent in spirit,
serving the Lord.’”

Mr. Dinsmore’s: “‘Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation;
continuing instant in prayer.’”

Elsie’s: “‘A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one
another: as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.’”

Annis repeated: “‘Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous.’”

Adelaide: “‘In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than
themselves.’”

Then it went round again.

“‘Let patience have her perfect work.’”

“‘Set your affection on things above, not on things on the earth.’”

“‘Let your conversation be without covetousness, and be content with
such things as ye have.’”

“‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.’”

“‘Use hospitality one to another without grudging.’”

“‘As we have there opportunity, left us do good unto all men,
especially unto them who are of the household of faith.’”

“‘Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right. Honor
thy father and mother.’” This came from Elsie’s sweet lips, and as she
repeated the command her arm crept lovingly around her father’s neck;
for she was, as usual, close at his side.

“‘Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life,’” Annis
repeated.

Then Mrs. Travilla: “‘Let us run with patience the race that is set
before us.’”

Rose: “‘In everything give thanks.’”

Mildred: “‘Ye believe in God, believe also in me.’”

Dr. Landreth: “‘Bear ye one another’s burdens.’”

Mr. Travilla: “‘Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them
that weep.’”

Adelaide: “‘Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.’”

Mr. Dinsmore: “‘Provide things honest in the sight of all men.’”

Dr. Landreth: “‘Every man shall bear his own burden.’”

A slight pause followed the last text, and then Mrs. Travilla broke
the silence.

“In all these and many more we learn his will concerning us,” she
said, “and he tells us ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments.’ ‘He that
hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me.’
Obedience――to a parent, and God is our Father; to a Master, and Jesus
is our Lord and Master――is the test of love.

“‘We love him because he first loved us’; and obey him not that we may
be saved, but because we are saved.

“‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and
believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not
come into condemnation; but is passed from death unto life.’

“‘Looking unto Jesus’――trusting in him alone for salvation, trying to
be like him, and to know, to do, and suffer all his holy will――this is
what it is to be a Christian; a follower of God――not as a slave――but
as a dear child. ‘Be ye therefore followers of God as dear children.’”

“Whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is my brother, and my
sister and mother,” read Mr. Dinsmore from his open Bible.

“Let us search out something more in regard to that will.”

“Please read the fourth and fifth verses of the first chapter of
Ephesians,” said Mrs. Travilla.

He turned to it and read: “According as he hath chosen us in him
before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and without
blame before him in love: Having predestinated us unto the adoption of
children by Jesus Christ to himself, according to the good pleasure of
his will.”

“What a blessed will!” she commented――“to predestinate us to the
adoption of children!――us! rebels against his authority, enemies by
wicked works. And then it was his will to give his only begotten and
well-beloved Son to die that we might live. He said, ‘Lo, I come to do
thy will, O God.’”

“‘And this is the will of God, even your sanctification,’” quoted
Mildred. “What Christian heart but must rejoice in that!”

Then Rose read: “‘And this is the father’s will which hath sent me,
that of all which he hath given me I should lose nothing, but should
raise it up again at the last day. And this is the will of him that
sent me, that every one which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may
have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day.’ Oh!”
she exclaimed, “shall we not rejoice in his will?”

Mr. Travilla’s Bible lay open before him. “Here,” he said, “in second
Peter, third chapter and ninth verse, we read, ‘The Lord is not slack
concerning his promise, as some men count slackness, but is long
suffering to us-ward, not willing that any should perish, but that all
should come to repentance.’”

Then turning to Ezekiel, eighteenth chapter, “‘Cast away from you all
your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed, and make you a new
heart and a new spirit, for why will ye die, O house of Israel? For I
have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord God:
wherefore turn yourselves and live ye.’”




CHAPTER XXIII.

  “When I am filled with sore distress
     For some surprising sin,
  I’ll plead thy perfect righteousness
     And mention none but thine.”
                                   ――WATTS.


The next day the little party at the Oaks was greatly reduced in size,
Mr. Travilla and his mother having gone to their own home; the doctor,
Mildred, and Annis to pay a visit of a week to some relative of his
living in the next county; so that Adelaide was the only remaining
guest.

Elsie missed Annis very much; especially when alone in her own
apartments; therefore, spent most of her time with Rose and Adelaide,
or in her papa’s study. She liked to be with him better than anywhere
else, even when he was too busy to notice her, and must not be spoken
to; and he was always pleased to have her by his side. She had the
freedom of his study, too, whether he were there or not.

Regular lessons were not to go on during Annis’s absence; but Elsie
read history with her father for an hour every morning, and spent
another over her music and drawing.

On Monday, the last day of the old year, as she sat on his knee, after
their early morning reading and prayer together, he told her that
“to-morrow evening――New Year’s night,” the Carletons were to give a
large party, similar to the one they had attended at Pinegrove. “And
we are all invited to it,” he added.

Her face flushed with pleasure. “Will you let me go, papa?” she asked,
and he read in her eyes that she was very desirous to do so.

“I have something to say to you before I answer that question,” he
said, softly stroking her hair, and looking with grave tenderness into
the beseeching eyes. “You are not very strong, and bore the fatigue of
the Pinegrove party so ill, that I fear the effect upon your health if
I should allow you to attend another.

“Health is one of God’s good gifts, and as such we have no right to
throw it away simply for our own pleasure. It is a Christian duty to
take care of it; because we can serve God better with strong, healthy
bodies, than with feeble, sickly ones. The Bible bids us, ‘Whether
therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of
God.’ Do you think, my child, that you can obey this command in going
to the party, when you know it is likely to injure your health?”

“I’m afraid not, papa,” she answered, in a low, reluctant tone.

“Very well; I leave it to your own conscience; you shall decide for
yourself, whether you will go or stay.”

“Then, I shall stay, papa, because you have made it plain to me that I
ought. But,” she sighed, “it will seem very lonesome while you and
mamma are gone.”

“No; we will not go early, and I shall see you safe in your bed before
starting.”

“Then, I shall not care so much,” she said. “I am pretty sure to go to
sleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. Papa, are we to have any
company to-morrow?”

“None, by invitation; the house has been so full for some time past,
that your mamma and I feel that it will be pleasant to take our New
Year’s dinner with only our own little family; for we hardly consider
your aunt Adelaide as other than one of ourselves.”

“I think it will be nice,” she said, with satisfaction; “though I’d be
glad if we could have Cousin Milly, and the doctor, and Annis.”

“So should I,” he responded; “they have come to seem a part of our
family.”

So New Year’s day passed very quietly at the Oaks, yet very pleasantly
too. Elsie received some handsome presents from her papa, Rose,
Adelaide, and Mr. Travilla. She enjoyed that, and also presenting the
gifts she had prepared for them.

Her father rode out with her shortly after breakfast, and on their
return they found Mr. Travilla in the drawing-room making his New
Year’s call. There were several other gentlemen doing the same, and
indeed there was quite a stream of callers all the morning.

Refreshments were offered to all――cake, candies, fruits, lemonade, and
hot coffee――all of the finest――but no wine or other intoxicating
beverage.

Elsie was allowed a little cake, a little candy, and as much fruit and
lemonade as she wished. She was well content with these, and the
pleasure of listening to the talk and watching the callers come and
go.

Mr. Travilla devoted himself a part of the time to her entertainment,
and that was something she always enjoyed greatly.

“Are you going to the party to-night?” he asked.

Elsie shook her head. “Papa thinks I could not bear the fatigue
without injury to my health, so it wouldn’t be right for me to go. But
he left it to my own conscience, he said, and let me decide for
myself.”

“Did he, indeed?” Mr. Travilla seemed both surprised and pleased.
“Well,” he said, “I think you were very right and wise to decide as
you did.”

Elsie thought it very kind in her father to let her decide for
herself, and also to promise not to leave her until she was in bed for
the night; and, in the fulness of her gratitude, offered to go to bed
an hour earlier than usual.

“Dear child!” Rose exclaimed, “that would be asking quite too much of
you; and we really don’t care to be among the first arrivals.”

“No,” remarked Adelaide, “we’ll be there long enough if we are the
very last. I’m growing tired of parties.”

Mr. Dinsmore had not responded to Elsie’s proposition as yet, except
by a pleased smile and tender caress.

“It would be no very great sacrifice, mamma,” Elsie said, “for somehow
I feel pretty tired to-night. Papa and I took quite a long walk this
afternoon, and I’m not sorry now that I’m to stay at home.”

“Home is a good place for tired people, isn’t it, daughter? and bed
the best part of it?” her father said, repeating his caresses. “So I
accept your generous offer, and shall be glad to see you in bed at the
early hour you have named.”

“Well,” said Adelaide, “I suppose if we go early we need not stay very
late.”

“There is no need for you to go any earlier than you wish,” replied
her brother. “I shall order the carriage for whatever hour you and
Rose fix upon.”

“Mamma and auntie, I’d like to see you when you are dressed,” Elsie
said; “but, I suppose, that won’t be till I’m in bed.”

Both ladies promised to come into her bedroom and exhibit themselves
before donning their wraps. They came in together and found her
already in bed, but not asleep.

“Oh!” she cried, sitting up to take a good view, “how nice and pretty
you both look! I hope you will enjoy the party very much indeed.”

“And what have you to say of me?” asked her father, presenting himself
before her.

“That I’m very proud of my handsome papa,” she answered, ending a
hasty survey of his whole person, with a look of love and delight up
into his face, as he stood gazing fondly down upon her.

“Love makes my little girl blind to any imperfection in her father,”
he said, taking her in his arms for a moment’s petting and fondling
ere he bade her good-night. “Now, go to sleep,” as he laid her down
and tucked the covers carefully about her.

The next afternoon, Mr. Dinsmore and the two ladies, feeling the need
of rest and sleep――for they had returned very late from the
party――each indulged in a nap.

Elsie, who was not sleepy, thought the house had never before seemed
so quiet and lonely; she missed Annis more than she had on any
previous day. She would have gone out for a walk, but a steady rain
forced her to remain within doors.

She wandered slowly, aimlessly, and with noiseless footsteps from room
to room. At length entering her father’s study she seated herself in
the chair he had occupied not long before, beside his writing-desk.

A book, a copy of “Oliver Twist,” lay open upon the desk, and as her
eye fell on the printed page, she read at a glance enough to arouse
within her an absorbing interest in its contents; and never stopping
to look at the title or to consider whether or no it was such a work
as she would be permitted to examine, she read on, hastily, eagerly,
to the bottom of the page; turned it quickly, and perused the next and
the next; so intensely interested as to be utterly oblivious of
everything but the story, until a slight sound causing her to look up,
she found her father standing close at her side, regarding her with a
countenance of mingled astonishment and grieved, stern displeasure.

Instantly her eyes fell beneath his gaze, while her face crimsoned
with shame and embarrassment.

He gently took the book from her and pointing to a large easy-chair on
the farther side of the room, said, “Sit there till I have time to
attend to you.”

His tone was very grave and sad, and she heard him sigh deeply as she
hastily and silently obeyed.

He paced the floor for some minutes, then seated himself at the desk,
and for the next half hour the room seemed painfully still; the slight
scratching of his pen and an occasional half-stifled sob from Elsie,
the only sound save the ceaseless patter of the rain outside.

The child’s tender conscience reproached her bitterly, and the loving
little heart ached with a heavy burden of remorse, because of the pain
she had given to that of her almost idolized father.

“Oh, could it be _possible_ that she had been guilty of such
disobedience to so kind and dear a father! a father whose dear delight
it was to heap favors and caresses upon her. How could she so wound
him!”

And worse than all was the disobedience to her heavenly Father, whose
command, ‘Children, obey your parents,’ she knew so well, and had
thought she loved to keep. Silently, and with bitter, repentant tears,
she confessed her sin to Him, and asked to be forgiven for Jesus’
sake.

But she dared not address her earthly father until he should first
speak to her. She trembled with fear of the punishment he might
inflict. What would it be? Would he visit her transgression with the
rod? She thought it not unlikely, she felt that she deserved that and
more. Oh, how dreadful if, in addition, he should deny her for days
and weeks the seat upon his knee, which was one of her dearest
privileges; the caresses and tender, loving words she so revelled it!
How could she bear it!

The time of waiting for his verdict seemed very long, would it ever
come to an end? And yet, when at last he laid aside his pen and turned
in her direction, she trembled and shrank from the ordeal that was
before her.

“Elsie!” His tone was exceedingly grave and stern.

“Sir!” she answered, in a voice full of tears.

“Come here to me!”

She obeyed instantly.

“O father! papa!” she sobbed, falling on her knees at his feet, “I’ve
been a very wicked, disobedient child! I deserve to be severely
punished, but I――” She could not go on for the sobs that were
well-nigh choking her.

He lifted her gently, and drew her to him. “I cannot tell you,” he
said in moved tones, “how deeply, how sorely, I am pained to find that
I cannot trust my daughter, the dear darling of my heart, as I fondly
believed I could! to find that she is but an eye-servant, obeying me
carefully in my presence, but disobeying my most express commands when
she thinks I shall not know it.”

“O papa!” she cried, in a voice of anguish, hiding her face on his
breast, while her whole frame shook with bitter, bursting sobs, “I’d
rather you would give me the severest whipping than say that! Oh,
please believe that it is the very first time I ever did such a thing!
You know all about every time I’ve disobeyed you.”

“I do believe it,” he answered; “I have never had reason to doubt my
daughter’s word.”

She lifted her face and looked up gratefully, though humbly, through
her tears.

“I am unutterably thankful to be able to say that,” he went on. “And I
am inclined to be the more lenient toward you, because I feel that I
am partly to blame for leaving temptation in your way; especially
after allowing you to hear enough about these stories of Dickens’ to
greatly excite your curiosity and interest. Therefore the only
punishment I shall inflict is a prohibition of your visits to this
room in my absence from it. You may come in as freely as heretofore
when I am here to see what you do, but at other times――until I see fit
to remove the prohibition――you are not to cross the threshold.”

Elsie’s tears fell fast; she felt her father’s prohibition keenly,
because it meant want of trust in her; yet she could but acknowledge
that it was a far lighter punishment than she had expected or
deserved.

“Dear papa, you are very, very kind not to punish me more severely,”
she said, as he lifted her face, and tenderly wiped away her tears
with his own fine, soft handkerchief; then, catching sight of his
face, “O papa, papa! don’t look so grieved and sad!” she cried,
clinging about his neck, with a fresh burst of sobs and tears.

“My child, I must look as I feel,” he sighed, holding her close to his
heart. “I cannot be other than sad after such a discovery as I have
made to-day.”

“Oh, all the pain ought to be mine!” she sobbed, “I ought to bear it
all! I want to!”

“But you cannot,” he said. “Let that thought deter you from all future
acts of disobedience. Sin always brings sorrow and suffering, and that
seldom to the evil-doer alone; usually the innocent suffer with the
guilty.”

“That is the very worst part of my punishment,” she sobbed. “But, oh,
won’t you believe, papa, that I am very, very sorry for having
disobeyed you, and do not intend ever to do so again?”

“Yes; I do believe that; and in proof of it, shall not forbid you to
go freely to the library; though there are novels there, and they are
not kept under lock and key.”

“I don’t deserve it,” she said, very humbly and gratefully. “O papa, I
don’t know how I could be so wickedly disobedient to such a dear,
good, kind father as you!”

“And to an infinitely better and kinder Father,” he added, in low,
reverent tones. “I would have you more concerned because of your sin
as against Him than against me.”

As he talked on for several minutes in the same strain, her distress
became so great that he found it necessary to try to comfort her with
assurances from God’s word of his willingness to forgive those who are
truly penitent, and who come to him for pardon pleading the merits and
atoning blood of his dear Son.

Opening the Bible he read to her, “If any man sin, we have an advocate
with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous, and he is the
propitiation for our sins.” “I, even I, am He that blotteth out thy
transgressions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy sins.”

“Papa, pray for me,” she pleaded, amid her sobs and tears; “ask God to
forgive my sins and take away all the evil that is in me.”

And he did, kneeling with her, his arm around her, her head against
his breast.

“Now, my darling,” he said, as he drew her to his knee again, “be
comforted, remembering that precious assurance of His word, ‘If we
confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and
to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’”

“Such sweet, comforting words, papa,” she said. Then after a moment’s
silence, “I don’t mean to try to excuse my wrong-doing, papa, but just
to tell you how I happened to disobey you so. A mere glance at the
open page interested me so greatly in the story that I thought of
nothing else till you were there beside me.”

“Want of thought has done a great deal of mischief in the world, my
child,” was his grave comment.




CHAPTER XXIV.

  “I shall the effect of this good lesson keep,
   As watchman to my heart.”
                                        ――SHAKSPEARE.


Mr. Travilla spent the evening at the Oaks, arriving shortly before
tea and remaining until Elsie had gone to her rooms for the night.

He noticed that his little friend was not her usual merry, happy self.
Her sweet face bore traces of tears, and as he watched her furtively
he was sure that now and then her eyes filled, and that she found it
difficult to conceal her emotion. Once or twice, too, she slipped out
of the room for a few moments; to recover control of her feelings; so
he thought.

She was very quiet, scarcely speaking at all, unless addressed, but
clung to her father even more closely than usual, her eyes often
seeking his with a wistful, pleading look, to which he responded with
a gentle caress, while his manner toward her was full of grave
tenderness.

“She has displeased him in some way (absurdly and almost tyrannically
strict as he is), and is morbidly remorseful for it,” was the
conclusion Mr. Travilla came to, and he quite longed to cheer and
comfort her.

Elsie on her part was disappointed that she had to go away for the
night without a few last minutes alone with her father. But just as
she was ready for bed he came in, took her on his knee, assured her
that he was now not in the least angry with her, and comforted her
again with sweet and appropriate texts of Scripture, telling of God’s
willingness to forgive those who truly repent of sin.

“Yes, papa,” she said, with fast falling tears. “I know Jesus has
forgiven me, but it breaks my heart to think I could so dishonor him!
He says, ‘If ye love me keep my commandments,’ and I have failed
to-day, and yet I do love him! I’m sure I do! and you too, dear papa.
Can you believe it after I have disobeyed you so?” she asked, with her
arm about his neck, her eyes, dim with tears, gazing beseechingly into
his.

“My darling, precious child, I haven’t a doubt of it!” he said,
folding her close to his heart. Then laying her in her bed, he kissed
her good-night and left her to her slumbers.

Mr. Dinsmore always kept his little daughter’s secrets even from Rose.
He thought it quite unnecessary to tell of any trouble between himself
and his child, and if Rose occasionally perceived that something was
wrong between them, she made no remark and asked no question, noticed
it in no way except by redoubling her kindness to both.

She had made the same observation that Mr. Travilla had that evening,
and drawn pretty nearly the same conclusion. Her husband had been
displeased with his little girl, but there had been a reconciliation,
and the child would soon recover her wonted cheerfulness and gayety.

Elsie did seem very much like her usual self the next morning, and
when her lessons were done joined her mamma in the parlor, bringing
some needlework with her.

Adelaide had concluded her visit to the Oaks, and she and her brother
had left a few moments before to drive over to Roselands.

So Rose and Elsie were alone together for a little while; but
presently Mr. Travilla joined them. He and Rose fell into desultory
chat, to which Elsie was an interested listener. The talk turned at
length upon engravings, and Rose spoke of a small, but very fine one,
lately bought by her husband, which Mr. Travilla had not yet seen.

“I want you to look at it,” Rose said. “Elsie dear,” turning to her
little step-daughter, “will you run to your papa’s study and bring me
his portfolio? I think it is in that.”

Elsie’s face crimsoned, and she seemed greatly confused and
embarrassed. “Mamma, I――I――please don’t ask me to,” she stammered,
then burst into tears.

Rose was greatly surprised. “What is it, dear?” she asked, with tender
concern.

“Papa――papa has――forbidden me to go there, except when――when he is
present,” sobbed the little girl, dropping her work to hide her
blushing face in her hands.

“Then never mind, dear child, I should not have asked you if I had
known that,” Rose said, in an undertone full of sympathy and
affection. “I shall go myself.”

Excusing herself to Mr. Travilla, she left the room.

He seemed scarcely to hear her excuse, so entirely was he taken up
with pitying tenderness toward the weeping, mortified, embarrassed
child.

“My dear little friend,” he said, drawing near and softly touching the
shining curls of the bowed head, “what can I do to help and comfort
you?”

“You are very kind,” she sobbed, “but no one can help me.”

“I have some influence with your papa,” he said, “and would gladly use
it in your behalf, if――if your trouble is that you have angered or
displeased him. But I know he loves you very, very dearly, and surely,
whatever you may have done, he will forgive and take you back into
favor, if you tell him you are sorry.”

“Papa is not angry with me now,” she said, wiping away her tears, and
looking up earnestly into her friend’s face, “but,” and again her face
flushed crimson and her eyes fell, while the tears rolled down her
cheeks――“oh, you would hardly believe how very, very naughty and
disobedient I was yesterday!”

“No, I don’t know how to believe it. But your papa is――”

He left the sentence unfinished; but Elsie knew intuitively his
thought――that her father was very strict and severe; and with a sudden
generous resolve to prove that he was not, she told Mr. Travilla the
whole truth, though deeply ashamed to have him know of her
wrong-doing.

“Oh, it is dreadful, to think my dear father can’t trust me!” she
sobbed, in conclusion; “but you see he was not severe with me, Mr.
Travilla. If he had given me a hard whipping beside, it wouldn’t have
been any more than I deserved.”

“A delicate, dear little girl like you!” he exclaimed. “I should never
have respected him again if he had.” But the last words were spoken so
low and indistinctly that Elsie did not catch them.

“A very bad, disobedient little girl, Mr. Travilla,” she sighed. “Oh,
I couldn’t have believed I ever would disobey papa so!”

“Do you know,” he said gently, “your remorse seems to me altogether
out of proportion to the offence――just reading a little in a forbidden
book. Why as a boy I was often guilty of far worse deeds, yet thought
myself rather a good sort of fellow after all.”

Elsie understood this remark as merely an effort to comfort her by
making light of her wrong-doing, and answered it with a grateful look.

“Now, my dear, I wouldn’t fret about it any more,” he said, smoothing
her hair with gentle, caressing hand. “I feel sure your papa will soon
trust you as fully as ever. _I_ should at this moment trust you to any
extent; and I assure you I think you the best little girl I ever
knew.”

Elsie looked up in incredulous surprise. “You are very, very kind,
sir! but papa does not think so: he knows me better.” And another tear
rolled quickly down her cheek.

“I hope,” Mr. Travilla said, meditatively, “he won’t think it
necessary to deny you the promised visit to Ion, because of this.”

“I did not know about that,” she returned, half inquiringly. “I
thought our holidays were to be over as soon as Annis comes back.”

“Yes, but we had arranged that you were to bring you books with you,
spend the mornings at your tasks, and enjoy, for the rest of the day,
whatever pleasures my mother and I might be able to provide. I think
we could make it pleasant for you.”

“Oh, I am sure of it! and I should like to go so much!” she exclaimed,
“but I don’t think papa will let me now; and I am sure I do not
deserve that he should.”

“Well, we won’t despair,” he said cheerfully. “I know he doesn’t allow
any coaxing from you, but that is not forbidden to me, and if
necessary, I shall try my powers of persuasion.”

A call to the nursery had detained Rose, thus giving them time for
this little talk; but now she was returning; they heard her light step
coming down the hall, her voice and that of old Mr. Dinsmore in
conversation.

“Grandpa! Oh, please excuse me, Mr. Travilla! I don’t want him to see
that――that――I’ve been crying,” Elsie exclaimed, and slipped out of the
room by one door as they entered by another.

Her eyes were so full of tears that she did not see that her father
was near until he had her in his arms.

“What is the matter?” he asked tenderly.

Her only answer was a fresh burst of tears and sobs.

They were near the door of her boudoir. He took her hand, led her in
there, sat down on a sofa and drew her to his knee.

“Tell me what ails you,” he said, and she knew by his tone that he
would have the whole story; there was no escape for her; though,
indeed, she was now and always ready enough to pour out all her griefs
into his sympathizing ear.

So she told of her mamma’s request and the confession it had forced
from her, that she was forbidden to go to his study in his absence;
ending with, “O papa, please, please remove the prohibition and punish
me some other way! won’t you, dear papa?”

“What other way?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, hiding her face on his shoulder.

“Shall I lock you up for a week on bread and water?”

“Oh, no, no! that would be worse; everybody would know I had been very
naughty. But I――I believe I’d almost rather you――would whip me; for
nobody need know about it, and it would be all over in a few minutes.”

“I shall not do that,” he said, very decidedly, and in a moved tone,
pressing her closer to his breast and touching his lips to her cheek;
“how could I? You must bear the punishment I have decreed, but you
shall have no other; and I hope it will not be long before I can trust
you as fully as ever.”

“Papa, can’t you do it now?” she asked imploringly; “won’t you remove
your prohibition?”

“No, not now; not for days or weeks.”

Then she wept very bitterly.

“My little daughter,” he said, tenderly wiping away her tears, and
smoothing the hair back from her heated brow, “I am very, very sorry
for you; but do you feel so sure of your strength to resist the
temptation before which you fell yesterday, that you wish me to expose
you to it again?”

“No, papa, oh, no!” she said, with a look of new comprehension in the
eyes she lifted to his; “but is that why you refuse?”

“Yes, daughter; for I have not the least doubt that you fully intend
to be obedient to me at all times, whether I am present or absent.”

“O papa, thank you! thank you very much!” she said, putting her arms
about his neck, while her face grew almost bright. “I thought your
prohibition meant doubt that I intended to be good and obedient, but
now I don’t want it removed; because――because I――am not sure I could
withstand temptation,” she added, humbly, a vivid blush suffusing her
face.

That evening Mr. Dinsmore told Elsie of the intended visit to Ion,
adding that it was to be made the next week.

“And will you let me go after I have been so naughty, papa?” she
asked, in glad surprise.

“Have I ever punished you twice for the same fault?” he inquired.

“No, sir; oh, no!”

“Then why should you expect it in this instance?”

“I don’t know, papa, only that I――I feel that I am so very, very
undeserving of such a pleasure,” she murmured, hanging her head and
blushing painfully.

“That question is not under consideration,” he said, gently lifting
the downcast face that he might kiss the sweet lips again and again;
“we all have very many blessings that we do not deserve.”




CHAPTER XXV.

                         “The mountain rill
   Seeks with no surer flow the far, bright sea,
   Than my unchanged affections flow to thee.”
                                          ――PARK BENJAMIN.


The Landreths and Annis returned to the Oaks on Monday of the next
week, and on Tuesday all went to Ion, where the rest of the week was
spent most delightfully.

There was a large dinner party the first day, but after that they were
the only guests, and their host and hostess quite laid themselves out
for their entertainment.

Rose and Mildred enjoyed many a nice, quiet chat with Mrs. Travilla in
the mornings, while the little girls were busy with their tasks; the
afternoons, when the weather permitted, were spent in the open air,
walking, riding, or driving; and in the evenings all gathered about
the fire, and lively conversation, enigmas, stories, games, and music
made the time fly so fast that the little folks could scarcely believe
the clock was right when it told them their hour for going to bed had
come.

Annis would sometimes have lingered if Elsie might have done so too;
but that Mr. Dinsmore would not allow; so with a pleasant good-night
to all they went away together; for they shared the same room and
enjoyed it greatly.

On Saturday evening they returned to the Oaks, and on Monday the old
round of duties and pleasures was taken up again.

One stormy afternoon, as the little girls sat together in Elsie’s
dressing-room, pleasantly busied in millinery and mantua-making for
the family of dolls, Annis said, “I read ‘Oliver Twist’ while we were
at Holly Hall.”

Elsie looked up in surprise. “Did you? Would your father and mother
let you read such books?”

“Well,” returned Annis, blushing, “I never heard them mention ‘Oliver
Twist’ at all, and I peeped into it one day and found it so
interesting I just couldn’t help going on and reading the whole story.
I thought why shouldn’t I read what Milly and Brother Charlie and
Cousin Horace and Cousin Rose do?”

“Papa says,” returned Elsie slowly, “that I might as well ask why the
baby may not eat everything that we older ones do.”

“I suppose he means that our minds haven’t cut their teeth yet,” said
Annis, laughing. “But don’t you wish you were grown up enough to read
novels?”

“I don’t know; I’d like to read them dearly well, but I love to be
papa’s little girl and sit on his knee.”

“You’ll do that when you’re grown up,” remarked Annis, with a wise nod
of her pretty head. “I’ll tell you the story of ‘Oliver Twist’ if you
want me to.”

The offer was a tempting one, Elsie did want so very much to know what
became of Oliver finally, and all about several of the other
characters in whom she had become interested; for one minute she
hesitated; then said firmly, “It wouldn’t be right for me to hear it,
Annis dear, without papa’s leave, and that I shouldn’t even dare to
ask. But I thank you all the same.”

“Elsie, you are so good and obedient that you often make me feel
ashamed of myself,” Annis said, with a look of hearty, affectionate
admiration into her cousin’s face.

The fair face crimsoned. “No, no, Annis, I am not! indeed I am not!”
she exclaimed in tremulous tones, the tears springing to her eyes.

“Oh, I know you’re a hypocrite and only pretend to be good!” returned
Annis, laughingly. “But there, I hear Milly calling me,” and hastily
laying aside her work away she ran.

“I wonder if I ought to tell her,” Elsie said to herself, wiping away
a tear. “Oh, I don’t want her to know! but I’m afraid it isn’t right
to let her think me so much better than I am.”

Just then there was a gentle tap at the door leading into her boudoir.
She rose quickly and opened it.

“O Mr. Travilla! I am glad to see you, sir!” she said, offering her
hand.

He took it and lifted it gallantly to his lips.

“Excuse me for coming in without an invitation, my little friend,” he
said. “I knocked at the other door, but no one seemed to hear, so I
came on to this one.”

“Please always feel free to do so, Mr. Travilla,” she answered; “I
think you have almost as much right as papa. Won’t you take this
easy-chair?”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, accepting the invitation. “And now if
you will allow me another of your papa’s privileges――that of taking
you on my knee, you will make me very happy.”

“Am I not growing too large and heavy, sir?” she asked, passively
submitting to his will.

“No, not at all; I only wish you belonged to me so that I could have
you here every day.”

“Mr. Travilla, I thought you would never think well of me again, never
love me any more, after you learned how very naughty I was one day a
few weeks ago,” she murmured, blushing and hanging her head.

“My dear little girl,” he said, stroking her hair, “that did not
lessen my good opinion of you; on the contrary, your sorrow for what
seemed to me but a slight misdemeanor, and your frank confession of
it, raised you in my esteem, if that were possible; for I have long
thought you very nearly perfect.”

She shook her head, the blush deepening on her cheek. “Ah, sir, you
make me feel like a hypocrite! And Annis has been talking so too, and
I――”

She hesitated, a troubled, anxious look on her sweet, innocent face.

“What is it, dear child?” he asked, “anything I can help you with?”

“I was wondering if――if I ought to tell Annis about my――my naughtiness
that day.”

“I am quite sure you are under no obligation to do so,” he said, “and
perhaps it would be better not to tell her.”

Elsie looked relieved.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, drawing something from his pocket, “I am
forgetting the particular errand on which I came. Here is a book that
you will enjoy, I think; and with your father’s approval; for I
submitted it to him before bringing it to you.”

Elsie accepted the gift with warm thanks and looks of delight which
well repaid him for his thoughtful kindness.

Annis came back presently, and after a little chat with her, Mr.
Travilla left them to enjoy the book together.

Mr. Dinsmore’s prohibition had not been removed, and Elsie still felt
it keenly, though, while carefully observing it, she said nothing on
the subject, to her papa or any one else.

One morning she and Annis came in from a walk about the grounds, and
while Annis went on into the house, Elsie lingered on the veranda,
petting and playing with a favorite dog.

Looking round at the sound of horse’s hoofs on the drive, she saw Dr.
Landreth just reining in his steed at the foot of the veranda steps.
The day being quite cold, there was no servant just at hand, though
usually several could be seen lounging near this, the principal
entrance to the mansion; so he called to her.

“Elsie, my dear, I have ridden back from the gate to recover my
note-book, which I think I must have left on the table in your
father’s study. Will you run and get it for me?”

Elsie felt her cheeks grow hot. What should she do? She was almost
certain her father was not in the house. Must she explain to the
doctor why she could not go into his study when he was not there? No;
she would summon a servant to do the errand; though that would take
longer than to do it herself, and the doctor seemed in haste, and
would wonder and probably be vexed at the delay. But it could not be
helped, she dared not, would not disobey her father. All this passed
through her mind in an instant.

“I will get it as quickly as I can, sir,” she said, and hurried into
the house.

She rapped lightly on the study-door, then opened it and peeped in. It
was just possible her papa might be there.

Yes, oh joy! there he was, sitting by the fire reading the morning
paper, and looking up from it, “I am here; come in, daughter,” he said
pleasantly.

“The doctor sent me for his note-book, papa,” she said, glancing about
in search of it.

“Yes, there it is on my writing-desk.”

“May I come back when I have given it to him, papa?” she asked, as she
took it up and turned to go.

“Yes; you may always come in when I am here; your father loves to have
you with him.”

There was a flash of joy in the beautiful eyes looking into his, and
the doctor thought, as he took the note-book from her hand, that he
had never seen a brighter, happier face.

“Many thanks, my dear,” he said, lifting his hat with a bow and smile,
then turned his horse’s head and galloped away.

Elsie looked after him for a moment, then hastened back to her father.

He greeted her entrance with a smile full of fatherly love and pride.

“Take off your hat and cloak,” he said, “and ring for a servant to
carry them away.”

She did so, then came and stood close at his side, putting her arm
around his neck, and laying her cheek to his.

“My papa! my own dear, dear papa!” she murmured lovingly.

“My precious little daughter!” he responded, laying down his paper and
drawing her to his knee. “I thought I saw a cloud on my darling’s face
as she peeped in at the door yonder a few moments since. What troubled
you, dearest? Tell papa all about it.”

“I was afraid you were not here, and so I couldn’t come in to do the
doctor’s errand; and I didn’t want to tell him so. I didn’t want him
to know why. It does seem, father, as if I’m in danger of having
everybody find out about my naughtiness and――and my punishment,” she
said, blushing and hanging her head, the troubled look again on her
face.

He did not answer immediately, but sat for some minutes silently
caressing her hair and cheek. Then, “My little girl,” he said, in low,
tender accents, “I think I may fully trust you now. I remove the
prohibition, and give you full permission to come in here when you
will as freely as ever.”

“Dear, papa, thank you! oh, thank you very much!” she cried joyfully,
repaying him with the sweetest kisses and smiles.

“Do you love me very much?” he asked.

“Oh, more than tongue can tell! I always did; always shall; I’m sure,
_sure_ I can never love anybody else half so dearly!”

“Suppose I should again become as cold, stern, and severe to my little
girl as I once was?” he said, with a tremor of pain and remorse in his
tones, and pressing her close to his heart as he spoke.

“I should love you still, papa,” she answered, tightening her clasp of
his neck, and showering kisses on his face; “but, oh, don’t ever be
so! it would break my heart if you should quit petting me, and not let
me sit here and hug and kiss you.”

“Don’t fear it, my precious one,” he said with emotion; “you could
scarcely suffer more than I from a cessation of these sweet love
passages between us.”




CHAPTER XXVI.

  “’Mid pleasures and palaces though I may roam,
   Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”


Winter sped rapidly away to our friends at the Oaks, each day so full
of agreeable, useful employment and quiet pleasures, that they found
it all too short; time never hung heavy on their hands, ennui was
unknown to them.

No unusual or startling event marked the course of the weeks and
months. Mildred and Annis kept up a steady correspondence with mother
and sisters, and now and then the letters from Pleasant Plains seemed
to bring with them a touch of homesickness; but it would pass off
directly, leaving the victims as light-hearted and happy as before.

So, until Spring had fairly set in and they knew that April suns and
showers were bringing out the buds and leaves, and waking the flowers
in garden and woods even in their northern home; then, in spite of a
very strong affection for these relatives and kind entertainers, a
very sincere regret at the thought of parting from them, they were
seized with a great and unquenchable desire for home――home and
mother――they longed for all the dear ones, but mother most of all.

The business affair which had called Dr. Landreth South had now been
brought to a prosperous issue, and as there was no longer any
necessity for remaining, an early day was set for their departure.

The doctor and his wife, conversing together in the privacy of their
own apartments one bright sunshiny morning, had just settled this
question, when Annis came running in.

Mildred, with the brightest, happiest face she had worn for days, was
dandling little Percy on her knee, telling him between rapturous
kisses, “He shall go home to dear grandpa and grandma, so he shall,
the darling pet!”

“O Milly, are we going home soon?” cried Annis breathlessly.

“Yes; next week, your brother says.”

“If you think you can be ready by that time,” added the doctor.

“I!” exclaimed Annis, “I’d be ready in an hour if you and Milly would.
Oh, I’m so glad, so glad! I must run and tell Elsie.”

“And don’t you hope she will be as glad as you are?” asked the doctor
jocosely.

“Oh, it will be hard to leave Elsie!” she said, stopping short, with a
look of distress. “I wonder if we couldn’t persuade Cousin Horace to
let us take her along to spend the summer at our house.”

“Try it, Annis; there’s nothing like trying,” remarked the doctor with
mock gravity. “But I advise you to extend your invitation to him; or,
better still, to the whole family; you’ll have more chance of
success.”

“I wish they could and would all go with us,” Mildred said.

“So do I, my dear; but I know that it wouldn’t suit Dinsmore to be
absent from the plantation, just at present.”

“Then why did you advise me to invite him?” asked Annis in a piqued
tone.

“Because in my opinion one might as well ask for the gift of his
entire fortune as for leave to carry his little girl so far from him.”

“O Brother Charlie! didn’t father and mother let me come just as far
away from them? and to stay away just as long?”

“Really, I had not thought of that!” laughed the doctor. “Well, ask
Mr. Dinsmore; but if he says no, make allowance for the fact that he
has but one daughter, while your father and mother rejoice in a goodly
number.”

“I’ll go and do it this minute!” she exclaimed with energy and
determination. “But first I’ll invite them all; sha’n’t I, Milly?” she
asked, looking back from the doorway.

“Yes, tell them nothing could give greater pleasure to us or mother
and the rest at home.”

Running lightly down the broad stairway into the spacious hall below,
Annis heard a sound of cheerful voices, mingled with peals of merry
child laughter, coming from the veranda beyond.

The air was warm and balmy with the breath of flowers, and doors and
windows stood wide open, giving to the passer-by delightful glimpses
of the grounds lovely with the verdure and bloom of spring.

From the veranda the view was more extended, and thither the whole
family had betaken themselves for the full enjoyment of it, and of the
sweet, fresh air. Here Annis found them; Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore sitting
side by side, little Horace on his father’s knee, and Elsie romping
and playing with him, laughing merrily herself, and making him laugh,
while the parents looked on with pleased and happy faces.

“Ah, Annis, will you come and join us?” Mr. Dinsmore said, catching
sight of the little girl as she stepped from the open doorway.

“Thank you, Cousin Horace,” she returned, coming forward in eager
haste. “I have some news to tell.”

“Ah! then let us have it.”

Elsie stopped her romping, stood still, and turned to listen.

“It is that we are to start for home next week; and, O Cousin Horace,
we want to take you all with us!” and she concluded with Mildred’s
message.

The expression of Elsie’s face changed rapidly as Annis spoke; at
first it was full of regret at the prospect of losing her cousins’
companionship; then of pleasure at the thought of going with them.

“O papa, can we?” she asked eagerly.

“No, daughter; it would not suit me to leave home at present. But we
all thank you and Mildred very much for your kind invitation,” he
added to Annis, “and are very sorry to hear that we are to lose you so
soon.”

“Yes, Annis; ah, what shall I do without you!” exclaimed Elsie.

“Cousin Horace, I wish you could go and would,” said Annis; “but if
you can’t, you will let Cousin Rose and little Horace and Elsie go,
won’t you?”

“My dear,” he said, turning to his wife, “how would you like to go as
far as Philadelphia with them? Your mother has been very urgent of
late for a visit from you and the boy,” with a fatherly, smiling
glance at his little son, “and this would be an excellent
opportunity.”

“I should so much prefer to have you with me,” Rose answered with
hesitation.

“If you want to make a long visit your wisest course will be to go
without me,” he returned with a smile. “I will follow some weeks later
and bring you home.”

“I must take time to think of it,” she said. “And Elsie? You will let
me take her with me?”

“And let her go on with us?” put in Annis.

“I am inclined to think I should not risk much in leaving the decision
of both questions with her,” he said, with a tenderly, affectionate
glance into the sweet face of his little girl.

“Leave you, papa! to go so far away and stay so long?” she exclaimed,
springing to his side, and clasping her arms tight about his neck.
“Oh, no, no, no! never unless you make me do it!”

“Make you!” he said, holding her close to his heart with a low, happy
laugh, “I don’t know what could induce me to permit it. My wife’s
parents have some claim on her and their little grandson,” he added,
looking fondly at Rose, “but you, daughter, belong entirely to me, and
here you must stay while I do.”

She heard his verdict with a gleeful laugh, gave him another hug and
kiss, then turned to Annis, and putting her arms about her, “O Annis
dear!” she said in tremulous tones, the tears filling her eyes, “what
shall I do without you?”

“Look forward to another happy time together at some future day,”
suggested Mr. Dinsmore cheerily. “And now if you will don your
riding-habits, we will have a gallop. I have ordered the ponies and a
horse for myself, and they will be here very shortly.”

The little girls were both very fond of riding, and smiles banished
tears from their faces as they hastened to do his bidding.

He exerted himself, and with good success, through the few remaining
days of Annis’s stay, to keep them so busily and pleasantly employed
that there should be little time for the indulgence of vain regrets.

Rose was not long in deciding to avail herself of this good
opportunity to visit her parents, and as they made their preparations
for the journey, the heart of each proud young mother was full of fond
anticipations, of the delight she should feel in showing her lovely
baby boy to his grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

“They will hardly know Percy at home; he has grown and improved so
much!” Mildred said to her husband.

“Very much indeed! yet I think they will not be long in doubt of his
identity,” the doctor responded with a proud, loving glance, from wife
to son and back again; “he has his mother’s eyes and smile.”

When the appointed day came it found all in readiness for the journey.

Mr. Dinsmore and Elsie accompanied the travellers to the city, saw
them on board the train and took leave of them there.

“O papa!” Elsie said, sobbing on his breast as they drove homeward,
“partings are so dreadful!――partings from those you love and don’t
expect to see again for a long, long while.”

“Yes, darling; I feel them to be so myself, and I know it must be
harder still for a little one like you with such a loving, tender
heart,” he answered, soothing her with caresses.

“How selfish I am, dear papa!” she exclaimed, lifting her head to look
into his face, and noting its sad expression, “how thoughtless to
forget how hard it must be for you to see mamma and little brother go
away.”

“Selfishness is quite foreign to your nature, I think, dear daughter,”
he returned, “and though I do feel keenly the parting from those dear
ones, the weeks of separation cannot look nearly so long to me as they
do to one of your age. But we will look forward to the happy meeting
we hope for at the end of those weeks. And we have each other still,”
he added with a cheery smile. “Should not that be enough to make us at
least tolerably happy?”

“Oh, yes! dear, dear papa! How much worse to be parted from you than
from all the rest of the world! I will not cry any more,” she said
with determination, wiping away her tears and smiling sweetly into the
eyes that were gazing so fondly into hers.

She kept her word, exerting herself to be cheerful and to win her
father from sad thoughts by loving caresses and sweet, innocent
prattle.

He seconded her efforts, and before they reached home they were
laughing and jesting right merrily.

But as they crossed the threshold she said with quivering lip and
tremulous voice, “Papa, how very lonely it seems! and it will be still
more so in my own room; without Annis and away from you.”

“Then suppose you spend all your time with me.”

“Oh, may I!” she asked, looking up delightedly into his face.

“Every moment from the time you are dressed in the morning till you
retire at night. That is, if you wish it, and can contrive to learn
your lessons by my side in the hours when I am indoors. In that case
you may go with me when and wherever I go.”

“Oh, how nice, dear papa!” she cried, clapping her hands and dancing
about in her delight.

“Yes,” he said, sitting down and taking her in his arms to pet and
fondle her. “I think we shall be very happy together even without any
one to help us enjoy ourselves. We were in former days, were we not,
darling?”

“Yes, indeed, papa! when we first came to this sweet home, and each of
us was all the other had. Let us pretend we’ve gone back to those old
times just for a little while. Wouldn’t it be a nice variety?”

“It seemed a very nice variety then, and you may pretend it as
strongly as you please,” he said, with an amused, indulgent smile.


THE END.




Transcriber’s Note

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations
were added. Duplicate words at line endings or page breaks were
removed. Misspelled words were not corrected. A few quotation marks
and apostrophes were adjusted to current usage.