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.

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.